Salty Kisses
by LuffyKun3695
Summary: SLASH! Cartman is tired of being the resident fatass. Befriended by the Goths, he soon discovers ways to deal with his weight. But when coping leads to self-mutilation, only one person can pull him from the abyss. Cartman/Kyle.
1. Hate

**TO THE READERS:**

It is said that no one mourns the wicked. No one cries over the damned. For every hero there must be a villain. For every day, a night must follow. This story embraces that night. Instead of condemning the vile and hated, it looks at them through different eyes so we can see their pain.

In Gregory Paul's 2001 novel, _Wicked: The Life & Times of the Wicked Witch of the West_, this same point is illustrated. Elphaba, a young woman with green skin and great power, is despised for little reason beyond her skin color and negative moral outlook. She is slandered and eventually hunted down to be killed. No one mourns the wicked, until you take the journey they did. For who can define who is truly wicked? When each story has two sides and each antagonist his own tale?

It is no exaggeration that South Park is one of the most fucked up places on the planet. While Trey Parker and Matt Stone utilize this fact for comedy, if you were to take the time to go deeper the residents of this little mountain town have more psychological problems than chapters in a Psychology textbook. Garrison has sexuality and gender-issues, not to mention daddy-drama. Craig acts out to be noticed. Clyde is a narcissist. Mackey was a in his late-forties when he lost his virginity and an eventual murderer (his girlfriend choked on his sperm). The Stoches are psychologically and emotionally abusive to their son. LeAnne is a notorious slut.

This, of course, leads us to Eric Theodore Cartman. This boy has more problems than a simple case study could handle. This story delves into as many as I could find, while creating more for drama, taking in the consideration of age and personal development over time.

This story was researched in detail. I write from personal experience as well as testimony from readers, friends, family, and many psychology texts. I pull out all the punches to make it as authentic as possible because in the end, this is meant to help.

THIS STORY CONTAINS: _homosexuality, profanity, sexual innuendo, bulimia, anorexia, self-mutilation, alcohol use, drug use, child abuse, partner abuse, animal abuse, homophobia, intimidation, violent assault, gang rape, female-on-male sexual assault, sexual battery, etc._

**This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.**

**Main Pair: **Eric/Kyle  
**Secondary Pair:** Stan/Wendy  
**Featured Pairs:** Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Mark  
**Mentioned Pairs: **Bebe/Clyde, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

**Warnings:** In this story, Eric becomes _bulimic_ and begins _cutting_. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone  
Fanfiction © Courtney Dracon (Me)

Songs:

"Let It Bleed" © The Used  
"I'm Not Okay" © My Chemical Romance

* * *

"**Salty Kisses"**

**Chapter One****: Hate **

They call me fatass; some vexatious nickname given to me to represent all seven of the deadly sins. Spawn of a disgusting drunken union of only the unholiest of people. I am evil itself. I could challenge the (fairy) son of the devil to a contest to see who is the most evil… and win.

I smile at other's pain and misfortune; enjoying the twisted pleasure that can only be derived from another's misery._ Finally, they're as unhappy as me…_

But there's a thin line between love and hate, they say. I've never crossed it before, but there's a first time for everything, isn't there? And I found it, in the form of a little red-haired Jew boy...

- 0 -

I wasn't always a hateful person you know, but I grew into a sordid little asshole as the abuse about my weight intensified. I hid behind my hateful façade. I mean, I had to blame _someone _for what I was; because it was _their_ cruelty that made me seek solace in food. It was _them_ that made me eat endlessly. My "friends"…

Assholes. The whole lot of them.

Stan Marsh. That romantic sap. What a dick! He got good grades and was the fucking _quarterback. _He'd even gotten back together with his girlfriend, Wendy and they'd been inseparable ever since. It seemed like all they did was neck, regardless of where they were or who they were near.

Next was that blonde Ghetto trash, Kenny McCormick. Slut. At sixteen, he'd already managed to match my _mother_with his whore behavior; screwing girls and guys alike. I'm surprised he hasn't contracted some sort of fatal sexual disease. As if it'd last, though. God would only send him back the very next day to gallop about and fuck once more.

_And that_ _Jew_… God I hated him so much. He had the fucking _perfect _life. He was thin and taught. He was in all honors classes and got only A's. He even had a girlfriend. Some home schooled bitch, Rebecca, or something like that. She was a spaz, like that schizoid Tweek kid; except with boobs, albeit tiny ones.

It was jackasses like _them _that made me what I am: a fat, depressed, asshole that takes out his endless pain on everyone around him. It's all their fault.

_**I'm **__their fault. _

- 0 -

One dreary morning in October, my alarm sounded as usual and I propped myself up; smacking the snooze button before lazily rolling out of bed. I padded into the bathroom, ignoring the scale. I stopped at the mirror.

I hated that pig that stared back at me; chubby face, tousled brown hair, squinty hazel eyes. Ugh. _Disgusting._ I tossed a towel over the mirror and went into the shower. The warm water seemed to melt away my anxiety, washing it down the drain with my sweat and tears.

I started to think while shampooing my hair. Maybe today would be different. Maybe today I'd start over and make myself a better person. Maybe today's the day! _Maybe…_

My happy thoughts always stop there as I realize, I'm useless and my feeble goals will never be realized. I don't have the drive or discipline for a diet. I can't handle the ridicule for it either. I hate myself. I can't believe I could be so useless.

And so, my thoughts progress into a downward spiral of self-loathing… and I wonder:

_Why bother? _

- 0 -

After dressing in my usual huge tee shirt and waterproof jeans, I pulled on my old red jacket. It was the only one of my childhood clothing items that still fit and to me, it was the most important. We'd been through so much together. I loved the frayed ends of the jacket sleeves and the occasional stain from some misadventure.

I'd always liked our adventures. I felt like I was part of something. Even if the guys didn't really make me feel welcome, I still enjoyed being around. Sometimes, it almost felt like we were real friends. Even with Kyle…

- 0 -

I left my house, walking down the sidewalk to the bus stop. I left deep imprints in the snow from my weight, so I hated to look down. It was beginning to snow and the dust was furling quietly around my ankles as the wind picked up the top layer of powder. I ignored everything around me as I walked down the street.

I stepped over the legs of our local homeless man, who had fallen asleep next to a garbage can by the end of my street, an empty vodka bottle in hand. I held my nose and breathed through my teeth, trying to disregard the terrible stench of vodka and stale sex of the unwashed soul.

I let myself sink into the music I was listening to. My iPod clutched in my meaty hand, I found the words of _The Used _quite soothing.

_I'm lying to myself  
And this dagger's my excuse  
I'm a pawn  
I should have paid up  
And I left an hour late  
I was laid up_

_I must abuse myself  
I'm against all that I've made up  
Set in stone the sun will come  
And I hate light  
You know I hate light_

_To me it looks so pretty burning_

I knew their words were for me and me alone, and I needed to hear them. I closed my eyes as I walked down the street.

The roads were familiar to me; I knew every groove and turn. Sight was useless. I preferred the blindness anyway, because at least then, I couldn't see myself. I could live in the illusion of a perfect existence. Even if it would never happen.

When I opened my eyes, it was to find Stan and Wendy going at it at the bus stop. I was disgusted by the display they put on. _Hadn't they ever heard of privacy!_

I watched in abhorrence as Stan ran his tongue down Wendy's neck. She whimpered slightly, and he moved his hands from her waist up to her shirt. I turned away. I didn't want to see anymore. Why couldn't pretty people just stop flaunting it?

Wendy spotted me out of the corner of her eye and pushed Stan away, adjusting her aged pink beret. She pulled her coat closed, but not before I saw her rumpled blouse, a pink bra peeking out. The buttons around the chest were opened with obvious haste. _Ew. _

"Sorry Cartman," she coughed apologetically and turned away to adjust herself, trying to hide her shame.

Stan was less penitent. He glared at me with obvious distaste, clearly saying: _Couldn't you have picked a better time? _I supposed I couldn't blame him, I guess I'd be pissed too if I'd been interrupted like that. But, I didn't really give a fuck. Why should I?

"Are you listening to that shitty emo music again, Cartman?" he asked snidely, indicating the iPod in my hand with a quick jerk of his head. I grinned. _Sweet_, a fight. I loved a good debate. Who didn't?

"It's better than the heavy metal shit you listen to, dickweed."

_Ah, friendship. _

Stan fumed and opened his mouth to say another insult. Sensing danger, Wendy clamped her mouth overtop of his for another long, incredibly annoying, kiss. I turned away and tuned out the sounds of love for something more Gothic.

_What will it take to show you that it's not the life it seems?  
(I'm not okay)  
I told you time and time again you sing the words but don't know what it means  
(I'm not okay)  
To be a joke and look, another line without a hook  
I held you close as we both shook for the last time take a good hard look! _

_I'm not okay  
I'm not okay  
I'm not okay  
You wear me out_

_Forget about the dirty looks  
The photographs your boyfriend took  
You said you read me like a book, but the pages all are torn and frayed_

Amidst the despondent lyrical prowess of Gerard Way, I didn't even notice the arrival of the Ghetto skank and the Jew.

"Could you two lighten up a bit?" I opened my eyes at Kyle's voice. He was standing with his little brother, Ike; his hand clamped solidly over the ten year old's eyes. Ike struggled vainly to still watch the show.

Ike may have been only ten, but he went to high school for his math and science classes anyway. He was some sort of Canadian prodigy, it probably didn't hurt that he was Jewish either. He'd grown into his head more since he was a baby. He was cute little kid, with bright brown eyes and birch hair. Well, he _was _cute; until he opened his mouth that is, because as soon as that happened, a string of ruthless, unforgiving, grammatically correct insults would spew out. He may have been only ten, but he could still make you feel like his inferior.

"Oh, right." Stan and Wendy let go of one another, straightening their clothing; grinning sheepishly at Kyle. He rolled his eyes and smiled back at them, a great smile. Kyle released Ike, who looked immediately depressed as he noticed the lack of soft porn for his enjoyment.

I watched them all exchange their good mornings and hellos; gazing on as they drifted smoothly into light conversation. I noticed that no one greeted me, although I wasn't horribly surprised. I just barely listened as they chatted, tuning in and out as I saw fit. Not even bothering to insert my usual snide comments. I didn't feel mean today. I never really did, I was only an asshole because that's what was expected of me.

I contented myself for the next ten minutes or so by pushing around chunks of dirty slush with my foot. I watched as the slush turned the white snow brown and dirty. The slow seeping of filth as it bled into the once pure snow repulsed me.

I was that slush, turning all around me as hateful as myself with just one touch. My hate was contagious.

The slush at my feet sprayed up over my pants as the bus pulled to a stop in front of us. "Fuck," I mumbled angrily, shaking the dirt from my pant legs as I followed the others onto the bus. I had to turn sideways to fit through the tiny little door. I saw Clyde snickering.

I moved to the back of the bus and took up residence in my usual seat, the one I had all to myself because no one could fit in it with me, nor did anyone want to. After all, no one likes Hitler reincarnate.

I gazed absentmindedly out the window, watching the snow whip in the wind as it fell to the ground. It piled upon itself. Just like my hate, growing, gaining strength. Forever cold… Just like South Park. Gerard Way had a point:

_I'm Not Okay… _


	2. Smells Like Teen Angst

I started this story after a serious depression and reading **Bagatelle**'s _The Weight of My Love _I decided I wanted to help people. Bagatelle's story inspired the coupling, but the entire idea of this was inspired by the fact that I was depressed and know that there are many others who have gone through depressions as well.

Depression is nothing to be ashamed of. I am **not **clinically depressed, nor am I bulimic. However; I am someone who is interested in becoming a Psychology major in college and helping people is something I like to do. I want this story to be relatable to some of you. For others, I want you to take a step back and realize that there are people out there who are suffering from issues such as depression and bulimia who need help.

In this story, Eric Cartman suffers from Chronic Depression. It leads to self-mutilation and bulimia. He eventually finds a way to recover, not just through medication but through himself. I want you all to understand that you too can recover from yourselves too. You are powerful and beautiful people. Please believe that. Eric's situation is more severe than some, for dramatic effect and to throw in as many situations as I can for people t relate to and understand how to deal with in their own ways.

I thank you for taking the time to read _Salty Kisses_. I hope that it helps you and that you enjoy it as my writing style improves.

PS. I'm sorry about _Love in the South, Park that is_. It's on hiatus due to lack of talent.

**Main Pair: **Eric/Kyle  
**Secondary Pair:** Stan/Wendy  
**Featured Pairs:** Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Mark  
**Mentioned Pairs: **Bebe/Clyde, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

**Warnings:** In this story, Eric becomes _bulimic_ and begins _cutting_. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

**Dedications:**This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.

South Park © Trey Parker & Matt Stone  
Fanfiction © Courtney Dracon (Me)

Songs:

"Lithium" by Nirvana  
"Somewhere I Belong" by Linkin Park

* * *

**Chapter Two:**** Smells Like Teen Angst**

I have a reoccurring nightmare.

I am in the kitchen of my house, except everything seems reverse. The usually bright lights are dank and dusty. There are cobwebs on the floor. The entire scene seems dingy and eerie.

My mother and Mr. Kitty are nowhere to be found. There is no sound in the house aside from a pot boiling merrily on the stove. I can hear its lid clanging as the contents begin to rise up and push against it. I approach it cautiously.

Slowly, I lift the lid and gasp. It is filled with black bile. As soon as I remove the top, the contents begin to ooze down the side of the pot, bubbling like pus. The smell is rancid, like a dead woman was dumped into a port-o-john. I inch closer, peering into the pot. There are large, purple octopus tentacles slashing around. They're searching for something. They want to drag me in. Dead maggots float on the surface of the gunk.

I try to slam the lid but one of the tentacles grabs me. I want to pull away, but it is too strong. I am pulled into the pot, into the bile. Down. Down. Down.

I wake up screaming.

_I'm so happy 'cause today I found my friends  
They're in my head  
I'm so ugly  
That's okay 'cause so are you_

We've broken our mirrors  
Sunday morning is every day for all I care  
And I'm not scared  
Light my candles in a daze  
'Cause I found God

I hate Art Class. I really do. It's that hell I have to endure for forty-five minutes _every fucking __day_! It's really starting to get to me. I loathe it because I have absolutely no artistic talent whatsoever. I vaguely recall the most artistic thing I've ever done being the one time Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and myself made a penis out of clay in the third grade. I wish I'd kept it. Maybe I could have turned it in as my final project for the quarter, because the piece of shit that I was trying to pass off as a watercolor, I had barley started certainly wouldn't do.

It was then I decided that I didn't want to paint. I would draw instead…

I went over to the supply cupboard and grabbed a piece of newsprint. I bought it back over to my chair. It didn't bug me that I was the only one at my table, since no one wanted to sit with me. _Good_, _fuck them._ I thought spitefully; I didn't want them to revel in my non-artistic talent anyway.

I began to draw, without the slightest idea what I was doing or why. I just let my pen move as it wished, devoid of any direction at all. A picture began to form: big, round eyes, freckled cheeks, cute face, and a hat with two flaps.

I stared at what I had done. It was crude, but there was no mistake about it; _I had just drawn __**Kyle Broflovski. **_

I scribbled out the picture so vigorously that I tore directly through the newsprint and found myself scribbling on the desk. I crumpled the paper up as quickly as I could and threw it away, as if somehow, everyone around me knew what I had done.

I leaned back into my chair, tears at the corners of my eyes from the physical exertion. I closed my eyes and inhaled the acrylic fumes of the tenth grade Art Room, hoping that they would clear my troubled mind.

_Why had I drawn Kyle?_

I sat back in contemplation. I couldn't think of any reasons why I would draw that annoying Jew rat.

"**He's not a rat, you know." **

_What? _

"**He's not a rat. You've begun to elude yourself of the lies you've told. That's what they are, Eric, lies."**

I felt my conscious beginning to gnaw at the back of my brain. My conscious knew something my cognizant mind had yet to realize… but what? And why couldn't I figure it out…? What was wrong with me?

The little voice in my head sighed.** "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Eric. You're life is not that difficult."**

I scoffed, _Says you. _

"**Eric, please…" **

I was getting pissed, now. I'd long ago shut out any traces of a normal human mind from my head. I wanted nothing to do with it, nothing moral to see what I was doing. No conscious. What the hell was it doing back? I ignored the voice tugging at my sanity.

_And I've got nothing to say  
I can't believe I didn't fall right down on my face  
(I was confused)  
Looking everywhere only to find  
That it's not the way I had imagined it all in my mind  
(So what am I) _

_What do I have but negativity  
'Cause I can't justify the way, everyone is looking at me  
(Nothing to lose)  
Nothing to gain; hollow and alone  
And the fault is my own, and the fault is my own_

I had managed to make it all the way to lunch. I piled my plate with so much food it was falling off the sides of the tray. I probably dropped a couple of _Snacky Cakes_ as I attempted to sidle through the tables. It was difficult, obviously, since my fat ass kept bumping into people.

I drown my sorrows in food. A lot of sorrows. A lot of food.

Sometimes, I cry into my food… spilling all my angst onto my plate in wet salty drops. Like little kisses of salty, biting pain.

I couldn't cry though, I was at school. I would die before I ever showed my emotions to another human being. So I stared down at my overstuffed plate, biting back my pain. I was so confused. I had no idea what I wanted…

"Jeezus, fatass." The voice made me choke on my food. I looked up to find Clyde Donovan standing over me, arms crossed. His girlfriend was behind him: Bebe Stevens, some little curly haired blonde thing. She looked like a twig; I could see the bones in her wrists poking through the skin.

Nevertheless, she stood behind Clyde with her hands on her hips, trying to look as snide as him. "Is there any food left, you fat fuck?" Clyde asked, in that nasty way of his.

I opened my mouth to reply, but to my surprise, another voice cut me off…

"Up yours, Clyde!" Kyle snapped. The brunette raised an eyebrow, but the Jew kept his glare level. My stomach jumped, he was standing up for me? _Why did that make me so happy?_

"Why are you defending this fat fuck, Kyle? You hate him more than I do!" Clyde scoffed. My stomach twitched.

Kyle's face reddened slightly, his mouth dropped into a sharp frown. His brow furrowed and his green eyes flashed. "That's not the point…" he whispered, angrily. I grimaced. I could see how it was. He hated me. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, but Clyde was there so I couldn't eat any of my food to make the feeling dissipate. I bit my lip and fought back the tears.

Kyle turned to Clyde and growled. It seemed as though even his freckles were flickering with his anger "Just get the fuck out of here, Clyde. We don't need you annoying the shit out of us. Take your skinny ass girlfriend and scat." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and turned away from Clyde.

I saw Bebe's face. She looked as though Kyle's insult was the worst thing she'd heard in her entire life. I wish _I _was a "skinny ass". What I wouldn't give to have my stomach caving in the way hers was. _What I wouldn't give…_

Clyde scowled and tsked. His right brow shot up into his coffee colored hairline. "I'll let you two fags be…"

Kyle reddened and began to stand up, but Stan's strong hand forced him back down into his seat. He sat fuming as Clyde and his posse stalked away in sync with each other's footsteps like the Jets from _West Side Story._ I half expected them to start snapping…

"Fucking douche bag…" Kyle muttered; then turned to me, "You owe me, fat ass." The anger that had been welling up inside me for the last few minutes let loose. Kyle hadn't protected me because he cared; I was fooling myself to even consider the thought. He stood up for me because he wanted to be the one who insulted me. He didn't want competition.

I felt like screaming. Instead, I slammed my hand down on the table and shot up, knocking my chair from underneath me, the clang of the plastic on linoleum was enough to get Kyle's attention. The back of the chair snapped, but I didn't care.

Kyle's emerald eyes widened, and before I knew what I was saying, I opened my mouth and the words flowed from me before I could stop myself, "I can defend myself, you know! I don't need you, you fucking Jew! Why don't you just leave me alone and go fuck your spastic girlfriend?" I shouted, smacking the tray onto the ground and stamping off, crushing a _Snacky Cake_ under my foot.

_I hate people._


	3. Jewfro

The chapter title "Jewfro" is making fun of Kyle's fluffy afro. In the movie _The 40 Year Old Virgin _there is a portion where the main character, Andy, takes his girlfriend's daughter to a free clinic and there's a Jewish boy who thinks he's all that. His dad makes fun of him, saying he has a "jewfro"

This chapter is depressing, but I think it's beautiful. I try really hard to make this story awesome, it's my first angst story and I wanted it to be depressing, but _REAL._ I researched bulimia and clinical depression and talked to a lot of people and I tried to put myself in the head of Cartman in this situation.

The songs were chosen by me because I thought they fit into the breaks in the story. I am working and reworking these chapters to death. I tend to write parts of this story when they come to me, regardless of where I am in the story, but then I save them and work them into my current chapter as I write it, that's why the chapters take so long to be produced.

OH! I haven't done this before, but I felt that I should. Self-abuse is a horrible downward spiral that does you no good. Bulimia and anorexia are _DISEASES _and if you suffer from either of these, you should look for some help, my darlings. I want you to be safe little kidlets. Cutting yourself does you no good either, I know this one personally. So if you need a person who can't be there to judge you, I'm here, tell me your story, I'll help you as much as I can. I can't judge you. I can't do anything except be the ear you need and the advice you want. Love you all!

**Main Pair: **Eric/Kyle  
**Secondary Pair:** Stan/Wendy  
**Featured Pairs:** Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Mark  
**Mentioned Pairs: **Bebe/Clyde, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

**Warnings:** In this story, Eric becomes _bulimic_ and begins _cutting_. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

**Dedications:**This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone  
Fanfiction © Courtney Dracon (Me)

Songs:

"Overkill" by Colin Hay  
"Return To Self Loathing" by Mest

* * *

**Chapter Three:**** Jewfro**

Life is a tube that is spiraling downward. It lets out into a huge pile of maggot-infested manure; and as you sit in the pile of stinking shit, trying to pull the chunks of it from your hair, you realize there are maggots attached to you because by the time you get all the crap out of your brain, you're dead.

I feel emo today…

I'm a failure as a teen, as a son, as a student, as a friend, and as a human being. No one will ever want me for who I am because I am repulsive.

I disgust myself…

Slowly, I feel my sanity slip through my fingers like water trickling through a strainer. I watch if filter down the drain and wonder where it goes to.

I'm sorry…

_I can't get to sleep  
__I think about the, implications  
__I'm diving in too deep  
__And possibly the complications  
__Especially at night…  
__I worry over situations  
__I know will be alright  
__Perhaps its just imagination_

_Day after day, it reappears  
__Night after night, my heartbeat shows the fear  
__Ghosts appear and fade away  
__Come back another day…_

I unlocked the door to my house, when I opened it, the sharp scent of sex and meat hit my nose. I crinkled it up, trying to block out the odor…

I let my backpack slide off my shoulder and onto the floor. I kicked the door shut behind me and unzipped my red coat, pulling it off and tossing it on top of my discarded bag. I trotted through the yellow living room and into the kitchen where a huge plate of oversized pork chops and potatoes were soaked in gravy. The food was piled so high it was falling off the plate. The whole thing was wrapped in saran wrap, with a small pink note folded on top. I picked the note and unfolded it. I frowned as I read my mother's winding script.

_Dear Poopsykins,  
__I have to work tonight, sweetie, so I made my little man some dinner. Remember to eat it all and go to bed on time. I love you!  
__Love, Mommy_

I snorted. The woman was impossible. She acted all smiley and sweet all the time, but she was really just a disgrace. She was a whore and I always felt like she didn't understand what she was doing to me. She thought that feeding me would solve all my problems, not realizing that it created more.

I always liked to translate her notes to me into what I thought they meant.

_Dear Fatass,  
__I am going to fuck half the town for cash. So I'm gonna shove food into your fat mouth so you can get even fatter. Go to bed so I don't have to look at you when I get home. I love you.  
__Love, The Whore_

I sighed; I wasn't all that hungry… but, maybe eating a little would soothe my pain. I picked up the plate and tossed it in the microwave, punching some buttons. While it heated, I grabbed a paper towel, a fork, and the salt shaker and threw them on the table. I opened the refrigerator and snatched a Coke, kicking the door shut as I turned around.

When the small ding indicated the completion of my meal, I pressed the open button and moved my hand aside as the microwave's plastic door swung open. I grabbed the warm plate and tugged off the saran wrap, tossing it on the counter. I pushed the microwave door closed.

I carefully balanced the salt on the corner of my plate. Tucking my Coke under my chin, I snatched my utensil in my other hand and walked into the living room, shuffling around Mr. Kitty as she wound through my legs, mewling for food. You'd think we never fed the thing…

I flopped onto the couch and put my feet up on the oak coffee table in front of me. I grabbed the remote from its home, wedged in between the pillows on the couch and flipped the television on, absentmindedly channel surfing. I dumped salt over my dripping pork chops and mashed potatoes, ignoring it completely if I missed the food and poured salt on my legs instead, what did I care? I was disgusting, anyway…

I popped off the pop tab and was greeted with the pleasant fizz of carbonated, caffeinated, liquid sugar. I took a sip of Coke and set the can on the table next to my feet.

As I watched TV I ate without noticing what I was putting into my mouth or how much. Mr. Kitty had fallen asleep at my side, her fuzzy gray head rubbing into the side of my leg. Her soft breath was barely audible over the television. I was watching _Dawson's Creek_. I glowered at the actors. All of them were so beautiful, so smart, so funny… so… _thin_.

The more they flaunted their unattainable beauty in front of my eyes, the more food I stuffed into my mouth, eating without tasting it.

Before I realized what I'd done, I was scooping an empty spoon into my mouth. I snapped back to reality and looked down. The entire plate was cleared. I chastised myself. I had just eaten at least two pounds of food. I disgusted myself! In a fit of anger, I tossed the plate on the floor, startling Mr. Kitty with the clatter. She quickly regained composure and went to lick the tiny reminisce of gravy from the plate on the floor.

Angrily, I pushed myself up and stomped up the stairs, the pounding shook the house. I went to my bathroom door and slammed it open. I walked to the mirror. I stared at my reflection.

I cursed myself. I cursed my fat face. I cursed my slimy brown hair. I cursed my piggy eyes and round nose. I cursed the rolls of flab that draped off my sides. I cursed myself for all that I was and all that I had become. A jerk, an idiot, a fatass…

Tears stung my hazel eyes as I glared at my reflection. "I hate you…" I glowered at my face, my blood began to boil; I gripped the sink, leaning into the mirror. "I HATE YOU!" I shouted. The voice that escaped me was barely my own, spitting hate with my words like venom from the mouth of a snake. In a moment of pure insanity, I wrapped my fingers around the sides of the medicine cabinet and ripped it from the wall. "I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!" I screamed, as I slammed it against the floor and watched the glass shatter, my image spilt into a million pieces.

As it hit the hard linoleum, the hinges on the cabinet's door cracked and the door swung open, revealing hundreds of pill bottles and personal toiletries as they spilled out onto the floor. A few pill bottles opened, and the multi-colored pills exploded from the clear orange cylinders. My shaving cream had split open and a small pool of white foam frothed and bubbled on the tile. My razor had flown across the room and hit the base of the toilet. My toothpaste, in its winded ball (as I was near the end of the tube) rolled slowly to a stop against my foot.

In an instant, my anger vanished and I began to sob uncontrollably. I dropped to my knees, feeling some glass against my bare skin. There _had _to be a way to fix my body… to fix… me… TO FIX ME SO SOMEONE COULD LOVE ME!

I gripped my stomach in my fat fingers and pulled at it uselessly, as if trying to yank it off. I had to get it all out of me. At that moment, my eyes caught the shining porcelain white glow of the toilet seat. It glowed like a gift from the gods in my crazed mind. I came to an impromptu decision.

I pushed myself across the icy tile, crawling on my knees to the bowl. I flipped the lid up and stared into the water. The pure, clean, innocent water…

_Not for long…_

I shoved my index finger as far down my throat as I could. I gagged and felt the warmth of the vomit as it rose up my throat. I removed my finger and puked into the toilet. Releasing, it felt, all of my sins into the smooth ceramic bowl. I watched as the chaste water turned dark with my self-loathing.

That's what I do, though. Make pure things dark. Dark like me…

_Sick of the way I am feeling.  
__Waking up watching myself slipping.  
__Should I just take out my eyes?  
__No longer want them for this life,  
__Acting strong only on the outside.  
__Hiding shame and pain on the inside.  
__I've tried to block my mind of this, and pretend it doesn't exist…_

_Losing my mind once again.  
__Stranding my thoughts,  
__No matter what I said…_

I must've flushed the toilet at least thirty times, and gargled with mouthwash twice as many… I cleaned up the bathroom as best I could. I swept up all the glass and fitted the cabinet back onto the wall loosely, though it now had no mirror, just a few shining shards still attached in the corners. The door hung for its life on a loose hinge. I piled the pills back into random bottles, without regards to the prescription and shoved them into the slanted cabinet.

Now, I was lying on my bed, dried tears still on my face; a fuzzy taste into my mouth. I ignored it, trying to swallow down the cotton mouthed feeling.

I rolled over and was face to face with Clyde Frog. The poor stuffed animal was beat to shit… sewn and resewn, patched and faded. I stared into his hollow plastic eyes.

_Once, when I was about five… I lost him. _

_I recalled my reaction to his disappearance. I turned the town upside down, sobbing, barging into people's homes, tearing them apart; looking for the doll. I was so devastated that I managed to find myself at the basketball courts, where Stan, Kyle, and Kenny were playing. I cried, begging for their assistance. Kenny and Stan shoved me off, turning back to their game._

_Kyle however, stayed. He looked at me, suspicious, his green eyes probing me, inquisitive, "Are you lying, Cartman?" he asked._

"_N—No!" I sobbed, unable to keep my usual asshole-ish attitude. I was truly devastated, when his green eyes looked into the sincerity of my hazel ones. He smiled._

"_Okay…" he nodded, the flaps of his hat hitting his face. In spite of myself, I grinned. He held out his hand, green gloved fingers spread invitingly, I entwined my fingers in his and he pulled me off into the town._

_Kyle assisted me in my search until well into the night. We ended up finding Clyde Frog in the forest, where some asshole (probably Clyde) had tossed him up into a tree. I tried, desperately, to climb the tree myself, but my fat body and lack of athletic skills prevented me from doing so. Kyle scaled the tree in a matter of seconds._

_When he reached the branch where Clyde Frog was sitting he picked him up and looked at him. Kyle stared into the doll's eyes for a full minute, before smiling and looking down at me. He dusted the stuffed toy off and threw him down to me. I caught him in my pudgy hands, unable to wipe the look of surprise and happiness from my face as I clutched Clyde Frog to my body._

_Kyle hopped down the tree branches like an acrobat and landed at the bottom. He smiled at me. A smile that made his green eyes glow like shards of emerald, "You owe me, fatass…" he grinned. _

Now at fifteen, I reached out and took the stuffed animal in my hands, pulling him close to me and remembering the beauty of Kyle's smile and how much fun we'd had. How _happy _I was when he said he'd help me. He was a really great guy. So smart, so cool, so funny, so handsome…

I sat up.

Why was I thinking these things about Kyle? What could I possibly be thinking! Why did my stomach turn every time I saw him smile? Every time I see his freckles glow in the sunlight? Why does my breath catch in my chest when he speaks to me? Even when he insults me? Why do I like to hear his voice so much? Why does my heart flutter when I see his gorgeous red hair? His… jewfro…?

That's when it hit me…

I was in love with Kyle! I was butt fucking crazy about Kyle James Broflovski! But that could only mean that… oh-no…

I was gay.

- 0 -

Eric Cartman, racist, anti Semite, Hitler reincarnate, jerk, fatass… fag?

God hates fags. That's what Mel Gibson said and I believed him. I always believed Mel Gibson. So I was going to hell…? Well, couldn't be any worse than being an overweight, angry, depressed, bulimic, fag in a tiny mountain town in the middle of a constant winter.

There's always a discussion of a divine plan. I wonder about that. Does God really want me to suffer?

Probably…

- 0 -

I didn't know what to do, so I ate. I ate and I ate and I ate. A box of Oreos, a carton of milk, six bags of popcorn, four packages of Ho-Ho's, two bags of barbeque chips, two Hershey bars, and three two-liters of Coke. I ate it all, and then I forced myself to puke it all up and them some.

When I'm scared or upset, I eat, and just discovering you're a faggot and wanna fuck your Jew friend, no, your _straight_ Jew friend. All of these are good reasons to binge, in my opinion. So I did. I binged. But for every binge, there must be a purge.

I want to be thin. I dream of being someone else. I long to be handsome, attractive, beautiful… maybe then Kyle will notice me.

_Maybe…_


	4. Go Goth

**Please Read My Authors' Notes:**

This is the chapter where Cartman decides to join the Goth kids and become evil. Now, remember, that in the episode _Raisins _the only Goth kid that was named was the girl, Henrietta. So, I named the other Goth Kids. I named them Salem, Blair, and Ben Dark or "Flippy".

Remember: _The Lords of the Underworld_, are not actually a band. They're Timmy and Skyler's band from the show.

I actually named them in another story I'm writing, that's not ready yet. A Stan/Wendy, Cartman/Kyle romantic comedy called _Never Get Over It._ It's mostly about the Stan/Wendy coupling and how they get back together, but I have lots of nice yaoi scenes with Kyle and Cartman in it as well. It's actually pretty funny. I've let some of my friends read it, and they want me to post it. But it's a thirty page one-shot. I can't separate it into chapters and have it keep its impact.

So, kidlets: what do you think of my story? I'm not clinically depressed, am I doing okay? I'm trying really hard. I meditate before I write. I do that before I act too. I close my eyes and won't open them until I feel like when I do; I'm seeing life through someone else's eyes. I hope it shows…

The poem… yeah, I wrote the dumb poem. Forgive me for it. It's not much, but I tried harder than anything to write this emo-tastic poem. I am not much of a poet, more of a lyricist, which is essentially the same thing, but I have always found it to be a bit more difficult to write something I can't sing. So please forgive me. I'm not much of an emo, finding words like Henrietta were very, very hard.

Oh, and thank you very much Raigo. I… just… thank you. I am very happy that you sent me that message. I am glad to know that I'm helping someone.

**Main Pair: **Eric/Kyle  
**Secondary Pair:** Stan/Wendy  
**Featured Pairs:** Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Mark  
**Mentioned Pairs: **Bebe/Clyde, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

**Warnings:** In this story, Eric becomes _bulimic_ and begins _cutting_. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

**Dedications:**This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone  
Tee Shirts/Hot Topic/Bands © Various Creators  
Fanfiction and Poem © Courtney Dracon (Me)

Songs:

"Pretty Handsome Awkward" by The Used  
"Fat Lip" by Sum 41

* * *

**Chapter Four:**** Go Goth**

Life. What is it? Some sort of endless string of nuisances and horror filled with disappointment, embarrassment and an endless feeling of nothingness?

_No… _that's not life, that's _my _life.

All my existence has become is as a self-loathing space filler. No one loves me. No one even cares if I live or die. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like at my funeral. Would anyone be there? Crying? YEAH RIGHT! There'd probably be three people there: the priest, my mom, and my mom's current fuck.

No one on this planet cares about me. There would probably be parties in celebration of my demise. I can see them now. Kyle would have one. He'd be glad to be rid of me.

Actually, I would be glad to be rid of me…

- 0 -

By two weeks, the act of binging and purging had fallen into routine. I'd already lost seven pounds and the weight of the world felt a little lighter.

But ever since my discovery I'd avoided Kyle like the plague: hiding in classrooms when I saw him turning the corner and delving into crowds when I spotted him walking down the hallway with Stan. I skipped lunch completely barricading myself in the bathroom. That was fine; I didn't need to eat anyway.

I felt pathetic.

Did I truthfully think that if Kyle saw face it would have _I love you _written on it? No, I wasn't worried about my face, it was my big, fat mouth I was worried about. What if I couldn't keep it buried? What if my feelings came tumbling out! I'd kill myself.

_I don't wanna waste my time,  
Become another casualty of society!  
I'll never fall in line,  
Become another victim of your conformity!_

And back down  
Because, you don't know us at all…  
We laugh when old people fall  
But what do you expect with a conscience so small?

If it wasn't just my luck, when I arrived at the bathroom at the beginning of my lunch period, I found it to be closed off. It looked like someone had put cherry bombs in all the urinals and blown out the entire wall. It had managed to flood into the hallway. The smell of urine wafted from the puddles around my feet. The smell was putrid. I frowned, wrinkling my nose with the vile odor.

I sighed. I would have to go to lunch.

There was no way I could get away with hiding in the bathroom on the second floor; some teacher would catch me for skipping. Last time that happened, the principal called my mom and she ended up having sex with him in his office. Some kid filmed it and posted it on every porn site in the greater Colorado area… yay.

When I arrived in the lunch room, I went straight for the table, avoiding the line. When I arrived, everyone watched me as I sat down. Their eyes burned like red hot daggers piercing my soul. My stomach bubbled as I locked eyes with Kyle. We hadn't spoken since my blow-up.

God he looked good. He was wearing a green _Nirvana _T-Shirt that hugged his chiseled body with a brown jacket over top it, and loose, ripped jeans. A thin black necklace with a shark tooth on it dangled from his throat. A hint of red curl peeked from underneath is usual hat.

I didn't have any food, which was unusual for me and I guess they paid more attention to me that I thought because Stan asked, "Where's your food Cartman?"

"I'm—I'm not hungry, I've been sick…" I lied, horribly aware of the nagging pain in my stomach as it begged to be fed. Stan raised a skeptical eyebrow, but didn't press. Why should he? It's not like he cared.

I turned my attention back to Kyle. He hadn't even glanced at me since I'd seated myself. He was still pissed. It's not like it was important, Kyle was always made at me for something. Then again, I'd always made _sure_ he was mad at me for something. With my recent discovery it had become painfully obvious to me that I just wanted him to notice me.

"**Say you're sorry, Eric." **My conscious pestered me. It was poking me at the back of my head like an annoying student sitting behind me in class. Prodding me with their pencil at the nape of my neck until it punctures and bleeds like a geyser, emptying my insides out like a spewing waterfall. **"Say you're sorry, Eric!"**

_Shut up._

"**Just do it. It's not hard. Apologize." **The voice was quiet, but incessant.

It was never ending. Tugging and twirling around my psyche like a soft swirl of smoke from a lit cigarette discarded on the floor of a bathroom, long abandoned but still swirling, still emitting a small amount of smoke. My conscious was that little whirl of smoke. The little ring never stopped. In fact, it was nearly unnoticeable. But eventually, the smell becomes too much and someone begins to choke on it.

I was starting to choke. My own conscious was beginning to smother me. I had tried so hard to destroy it, to detach the wiring in my brain that told me the right thing to do. And yet, it had managed to correct itself. What was happening to me?

"Kyle," my voice spoke without my approval. I didn't mean to say anything at all but my mouth opened and the words spilled out. Kyle looked at me with a slight glare. My blood froze cold in my veins. _What could I say? How could I—?_

My thoughts were cut short. Kyle looked at me calmly with no clear expression in his ever changing emerald eyes. "Don't bother, Cartman. Okay?" Kyle whispered his voice a low monotone, "I know you don't mean it, you never do."

His words felt more painful than the cuts on my knees or the stares of the people in the lunchroom. If I said anything to him, I can't remember what it was. I just stood up and left. I can't remember where I went or what I did. All I remember is the stabbing pain in my chest that stung like the claws of a vicious lion on my already tender and shattered heart, still sore from my realization of love.

_Is this what I was? _I asked myself. Just some… disgusting liar? Someone so contemptible that he couldn't even trust in his apology?

_Yes…_

I was so hurt. I drifted through the rest of the day like a zombie.

- 0 -

While walking through the hallways so I could go out to the buses lined up in front of the school, I thought over the day's events. I felt like shit. I couldn't decide if I had done the right thing by apologizing or if I had overreacted by leaving. Who was I kidding? I didn't even know what the right thing was. I had made an ass of myself in front of Kyle yet again. Why did I even bother? It wasn't like I hadn't done it a million times before—was I— starting to care?

**Yes.**

_What?_ I stopped for a moment. I completely stopped walking and people jostled past me. I didn't care when they crashed into me and muttered what a fat ass I was, that I was a waste of space. I was wondering if it was my own voice I had just heard. Had I—had I said it out loud?

I shook the thought and continued to walk. I sidestepped a door as it swung open and bumped into a black figure. Their books spilled out onto the floor. "Watch it!" they snarled. She glared at me, locking her eyes with mine. It was one of the Goth Kids, the girl. I couldn't remember her name. She was a year older than me, a junior.

I bent down to pick up her books. I noticed all of her textbooks were covered in black. They had pictures of skulls, snakes, daggers, and blood covering them. One of them had flown open, its contents strewn across the floor. A piece of shredded paper, dark gray in color, caught my eye. The handwriting on it was wiry and coiled, like snaking vines of ivy tying around the page. The words sat on the lines like they were winded around a tree branch. It was a poem.

_**Pain consumes my tortured soul,  
My heart is bleeding  
It seems as though your words have finally ripped through my heart  
I'm torn apart**_

Words are teeth  
They eat away at my decaying flesh  
And every single day  
I feel one step closer to death

I love you  
But the words mean nothing more than shit  
I let you have all of me and what did I expect?  
Something?

I expect nothing  
I love nothing  
I feel nothing  
I am nothing…

It was pretty, a lovely little winding prose of anguish and self-loathing. It was Goth, and yet, it was me. I met her gaze. She was actually sort of attractive, in a creepy Marilyn Manson sort of way. She held her excess weight nicely, as some women can. I however; am not a woman, nor one of those people who can hold their weight in any attractive way whatsoever.

Her best feature was her eyes. She had deep, haunted eyes that were some odd shade of blue that looked purple in the light. The huge eyes were accented by long black lashes, deep black eyeliner, and plum-colored eye shadow that showed off her violet irises even more.

Her lips were as black as night and stood out on her pale powdered face like a black lake in a drift of snow, curving and fluid. She was dressed in a tight black corset with interlacing purple ties down the bodice and a frilled, lace skirt that spread around her like a large black doily.

I wasn't, _attracted _to her per se. I mean, she was a woman. I had recently discovered that the female sex had no appeal to me. But I found her very interesting and unique. She seemed confident in her depression and self-hatred. Perhaps, that's what I needed, to be happy that I couldn't stand myself. Maybe I needed to be Goth.

As she stood up I followed her, handing her books. "The poem," I whispered, unable to stop myself. "I really liked it." I confessed. She looked at me, raising a thin eyebrow. I blushed in embarrassment but to my surprise, she smiled.

I had never seen a Goth smile, but when she did it, it was very pretty. Actually, it was alluring. Her black lips turned up ever so slightly, in a low-key way that had to be searched for, and her purple eyes glittered like two amethysts lodged in her sockets. "Thank you," she said. Her voice was gravelly, hoarse, but lovely, like Stevie Nicks. Almost male, but it was still feminine. I blushed inadvertently and her eyes flashed. "What's your name?" she asked.

"E—Eric," I found myself stumbling over words. I was no longer an asshole for this moment, I was myself: scared, vulnerable, self-loathing, dying for acceptance.

"I'm Henrietta." she whispered in her mystifying voice, "Why don't you come with me?" she gestured, turning her back to me and gliding through the crowds.

I followed her as she weaved her way out the back door. She put her ample weight against the metal door and thrust it open. She gestured to me and led me outside. Standing before me were three of the oddest looking kids I had ever seen. They were dressed in all black, Goth, pinstripes, tight fitting clothes, earrings, and heaps of black eyeliner.

I surveyed each one in turn, noting little traits about each. I was already familiar with Henrietta, so my gaze fell to the boy with red and black hair. He flipped it unremittingly when he spoke. His hollow blue eyes were lined in smoky black liner that made them look bright and full of hate. He was wearing a contoured black jacket with thin off-white pinstripes over a red tee shirt that read _My Pet Zombie Hates Your Guts, But Loves Your Brain_ and matching pinstripe pants, skinny-jeans, I think they're called, practically spray-painted on his toothpick ass. I burned with jealousy. I think I shall call him Flippy…

The second boy had a goddamn pompadour. He had so much black eyeliner underneath his eyes he looked as though he hadn't slept in years. A cigarette dangled from his lips and an upside-down gold cross stud was in his ear. He also wore a black jacket. The white shirt underneath it looked as if it would've been at home on William Shakespeare. Some fruity, puffed out number. He looked at me with lifeless eyes. Bored to death.

The third boy fucking freaked me out. There was no way else to put it. He was small, probably about eleven years old, but he looked as if he had been through thousands of years of torture. His black hair fell low over his blank, doll-like eyes. Eyes that looked as if they had no mercy left within them, no innocence. His mesmerizing eyes could give Charlie Manson a run for his money. His solid black outfit hugged his sickly thin figure. I felt my stomach drop. His entire body was thinner than my fucking arm.

They seemed like a bunch of fuck-ups to me, but I was aware that I was no better. At least they were cool with feeling like shit. It would definitely be nice to _want_ to be the asshole that everyone loathed. Ah yes, a land where skepticism was key and black was the new… black.

"Who's this faggot?" the boy with the pompadour spat. I felt my stomach drop. Was I that obvious? In a split second, I remembered that up until recently I constantly used the word as an insult with no consideration to whether or not the person I was criticizing was actually a homosexual. I was safe.

"This is Eric," Henrietta said, placing one of her pretty hands on me. The long square-tipped purple nails dug into my shoulder possessively. "He's with me." Was I? "He liked my poetry. Plus, he's so deliciously depressed." She cooed, her nails ripping into my jacket. I felt as though she had just made a pet out of me.

"Mmn," Flippy allowed, his bored eyes moved up and down my body slowly, almost lethargically, as if he got bored halfway down and had to remind himself of what he was doing. "I'm Ben Dark." I fought back a laugh at his incredibly lame name. He flipped his hair a few more times. I think I'll stay with Flippy.

The pompadour boy took a drag from his cigarette, releasing a low stream of smoke into the air. "My name is Blair." he said in his effeminate voice, flicking ashes from the end of his cigarette onto the ground. I can't believe this boy called me a fag when was so obviously one himself.

"Salem," the little boy whispered. His voice was still high, young. It hadn't quite reached puberty yet. His melancholy tone was so filled with hate and loathing it shook me to my core. It was like staring into a small, skinny mirror.

"Welcome to the Goths, Eric." Henrietta leaned into me, her hot breath caressing me ear in an unmistakably sexual way. Her breath smelled of tobacco, she must've smoked as well. I would have had to be blind to not realize she wanted me; perhaps looks met nothing to her. It was the only logical explanation for her to be attracted to my fat ass. I was so fucked up; I was probably like the Gothic Brad Pitt.

- 0 -

After I left the Goth Kids I went home to demand money from my mother. When I arrived she was wearing a light blue long-sleeved shirt with a very matronly lace collar. It was a classic look for her, but I knew underneath the cashmere and thin khakis was some sort of overly intricate, butt-ugly bubblegum pink number complete with lace, tassels, corseting, and garters.

I could see her bare nipples poking up through the thin fabric. I felt the warm bile rise in my throat, stinging the back of my tongue and tonsils. I swallowed it down and immediately regretted the decision. I should have just tossed it and lost the fucking weight.

"Money," I commanded, holding out my open hand in demand. I typically asked for money for food, but since I was forcing myself to throw up any tiny food morsel that passed through my fat lips I hadn't bothered. She looked down at my expectant hand without as much as a blink of her intensely mascara'd eyes. I hadn't bothered to ask her for money in weeks, so she was willing to give me some of the money she wasn't going to spend on her next fix.

She flashed me her usual saccharine, goopy smile, "Of course, Poopykins!" she doted in her high, annoying voice. I snarled at the abysmal nickname as she placed a rolled up stack of bills in my hand. They were mostly one dollar bills. I felt like a fucking pimp.

Mom kissed my head, leaving a sticky red lipstick print that I furiously rubbed away. "I'm going to the mall." I growled, turning on my heel and leaving her to stand by herself in the living room. There was absolutely no one on this planet that disgusted me more than that cheap whore.

_Okay, maybe one… _

_Your dream vacation, is my hostage refuge  
A work in progress…  
You bleed just like you puke while runnin' a mile!  
I beg to differ, make me an offer  
Warm summer rain…  
You bleed just like you puke while runnin' a mile_

Hey, are you okay?  
You look pretty low  
Very handsome, awkward

Do you feel okay?  
You look pretty low  
Very handsome, awkward

I went to South Park mall and waded through the crowd in the food court. I nearly shit myself when I spotted Kyle sitting at a table with Stan, Wendy, and to my dismay, his schizoid girlfriend. She wasn't bad looking, if a little mousy, and I felt my jealousy burning within me like a raging forest fire. I hated her. It took everything I had not to stab her with the plastic fork she was eating her Chinese food with.

I actually had sick visions of what her eyes would look like pierced on the white plastic utensil. I bit my lip and walked past them. I could feel their eyes on me as I passed them. I wasn't surprised. A fucking whale in a Crayola red ski jacket was damn hard to miss.

I entered _Hot Topic _with a single goal in mind: Goth clothes. I was going to make myself into what I needed to be.

The sales clerk looked up as I entered. I was the only person in the store other than herself and a boy in purple loitering in the back by the CD's. She was pretty, a petite little girl with a light gray Hello Kitty shirt that was up high enough so that I could see the skull ring in her belly button. Her black and pink pants were low on sensuous hips that made me jealous. Her hair was six different colors, short and spiked up. Her eyes were lined darker than a raccoon with deep navy liner that sparkled under the pale light. She smiled at me. I nodded back, uncaring.

I grabbed a plastic basket and began selecting clothing. Huge black baggy pants, patterned with neon bright colors, decorated with dragging suspenders and silver, clinking chains. I snatched up T-Shirts of various Goth and Emo bands, _The Lords of the Underworld_, _The Used_, _Slayer_, whatever I could think of. I grabbed wristbands and belts. I even took a few pairs of shoes that cost over fifty dollars. Price meant nothing to me; it was my whore mom's money anyway.

I chose a few structured jackets. Those faggots on that _Queer Eye _show said something about them making you look thinner. I figure, there's nothing wrong with me looking a little bit thinner, right? A couple of pinstripe jackets joined the pile, along with a long black trench, covered in skull buttons with zippers crisscrossing down it. I hoped it would be warm, since I was going to throw out all of my feelings for Kyle with my red coat.

No more Kyle. No more memories. No more anything…

I glanced around, and my eye caught a rotating cylinder piled with hair dye, jewelry, makeup, and pins. I snatched up a jar of the blue _Manic Panic _and a few pencils of black eyeliner. If I was gonna do this, there was no fucking way I was gonna do this halfway.

I chose a new Gothic backpack and a few pins to compliment it. Everything I was, was going to become Goth. I grabbed a small book. It was bound in black with a swirling gray and white skull design. I just wanted it.

I purchased everything and asked her if I could change in the changing room. The pretty sales clerk smiled and handed me the key. She winked, "Getting a new identity, huh?" she asked, my stomach flipped. Was she clairvoyant?

I didn't reply, but walked past her into the back changing room. I locked the door behind me pulled off my hat. Slowly, layer by layer, I striped to my boxers. I stood for a moment and stared in the mirror, my fat body reflected back at me. I stared at the old me: the faggot who wanted Kyle, the huge fatso, the jackass who desired something that didn't exist for him… love.

I pulled on a pair of bell bottom black and blue pants that, surprisingly, fit my fat ass. I slipped a pair of black and white checkered Vans onto my feet. I tugged a black T-Shirt with a dripping red heart and white curling writing, _The Used: In Love and Death._ I pulled the black trench coat over my shoulders and surveyed myself. I looked depressed. _Perfect._

I fiddled through my piles of bags and fished out a tube of liner. I slowly applied it to the lids around my hazel eyes, blending it with my pinky like I'd seen my mother do millions of times over the years. Part of the ritual she had before she left for her nights on the street corner.

I shook my brown hair down in front of my right eye. I looked alright, actually. I looked almost human. It was a nice change from the pig I was used to seeing stare back at me. My binging weight loss had started to show. I was down seven pounds and my face actually looked a little thinner.

I left _Hot Topic_ waving my regards to the cashier, who whistled at my new outfit. In my left hand, I carried my piles of bags. In my right, I held my old clothing. I walked directly to the food court. I wanted Kyle to see, to see me washing my hands of him.

When I arrived, they took a double take.

I reveled for a moment in Kyle's emerald gaze while he actually focused on me for an instant. I walked with purpose to the wire mesh garbage can near their table and threw my old clothes with a lovely resounding bang into the trash can. I swung my _Hot Topic _bags over my shoulder and marched out of the mall, my back to their table.

_Goodbye Kyle…_


	5. Tainted Home

**SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! MY COMPUTER DIED!**

Hey folks! How are you? We begin, yet again, another heart wrenching and horrible chapter of _Salty Kisses_. In this upsetting installment Cartman will begin his new life as a Goth. We will be introduced to Bebe as a central character and delve deeper into the roots of Eric's depression through his mother.

**There are characters getting high in this chapter. I have never, ever gotten high and I don't plan to. My only knowledge is of how weed is smoked is from movies. So please correct me if you know. Do not correct me on the smell of it, I asked my parents and this is what they described. They grew up in the seventies. **

Do not mind mentions of girls being pretty by Eric. He may be gay, but he's not blind. Even homosexuals can see the appeals of the opposite sex even if they are not attracted to them sexually, just like straight people can with the same sex!

LeAnne Cartman has proven to be a perfect antagonist for Eric, though she will not prove herself to be the main point of Eric's woe. That honor is placed on another person in the cast who has only been mentioned briefly until now, and no, it is not Kyle or Bebe.

LeAnne is not a very good mother; I feel that her treatment of Eric is vile. In the episode, _Tsst_, you feel sympathetic towards her. As if Cartman were some sort of horrible child and it had nothing at all to do with her sub par parenting.

Perhaps Eric would not be so loathing if she was not a whore who treated him with a saccharine sweet attitude trying to compensate for her terrible treatment of her son with food. She and Eric need to have a better relationship. They horribly misuse one another with little to no regards for the other's feelings.

I know that LeAnne has never struck Eric. I don't care, call it writer's license.

The end is a little choppy, I feel. I tried my very best to tie it the way I needed it to be tied but I'm not sure I like it. The next chapter is going to be very, very bad ass.

**Main Pair: **Eric/Kyle  
**Secondary Pair:** Stan/Wendy  
**Featured Pairs:** Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Mark  
**Mentioned Pairs: **Bebe/Clyde, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

**Warnings:** In this story, Eric becomes _bulimic_ and begins _cutting_. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

**Dedications:**This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone  
Fanfiction and Poem © Courtney Dracon (Me)

Songs:

"Animal I Have Become" by Three Days Grace  
"I'm Not Alright" by Sanctus Real

* * *

**Chapter Five:**** Tainted Home**

_Sin…_

Sin is the most powerful word in any language. More powerful than the words _hate_, _love_, and _God _combined. A sin is something that cannot be forgiven. It is something more than a mere imperfection of humanity that results in the utmost of evil. Sins are powerful, powerful things.

A sin can be anything as simple as eating meat on a Friday to something more hardcore, like murder, or rape, and most of all… homosexuality. Mel Gibson says that being a faggot is the worst offense to God that there is to offer. Better to be found with a dead girl than a live boy, isn't that the saying? Well, I didn't have either, and I sort of wish I was the dead one.

I have come to accept this fact as my own reality, that I am sin. I am more than the word itself; I am the embodiment of its meaning. I am more than some fag. I am evil, vexatious, and full of nothing but self-hatred and malice.

I am Eric Cartman.

_I can't escape this hell…  
__So many times I've tried,  
__But I'm still caged inside…_

_Somebody get me through this nightmare  
__I can't control myself!  
__Somebody wake me from this nightmare  
__I can't escape this hell!_

_So what if you can see, the dark inside of me?  
__You'll never change the animal I have become!  
__Help me believe,  
__It's not the real me…  
__Somebody tame this animal I have become…_

They say misery loves company…

If that's so, then I just hit the mother fucking _jackpot_; because I had four misery lovin' amigos that were primed and ready to tell me just how great life _isn't_ and remind me of my own worthlessness as well as elaborating on their own.

_Ah, friendship._

It had been three weeks since I had hooked up with the Goths and I had come to find that while my new companions might have been quiet and self-loathing, I fit in with them just fine. All they did was sit around, get drunk and high, smoke, and read poetry, but I didn't care. I didn't drink or get high, nor did I smoke, but I wrote poetry… books and books filled with my woe in no time at all.

Flippy was quiet, even when he was drunk. He barely ever spoke, except to put in his two cents with a casual flip of his bangs. His words were careful and well chosen. He wanted to make sure each one of them stung with the power of one thousand needles.

Blair was much more talkative than Flippy. His effeminate voice filled he room often. He chain smoked when he talked and was constantly complaining about his parents divorce and other seemingly unimportant miseries. He was a drama queen. Blair had a talent for making a simple splinter seem as devastating as 9/11.

Salem was another story entirely.

He was virtually mute. He rarely spoke and all of his words were filled with such loathing I felt my heart stop whenever his crackling voice filled my ears.

He cut himself often. I found myself mesmerized when he took off his shirt for the first time. His thin, bony form was covered in bandages. He had them wrapped around his stomach and arms, fresh blood seeping against the bindings. The rest of him was covered in scabs and scars. The dark haired boy looked like a corpse that just came out of autopsy.

He sliced himself in front of us. He didn't care.

Salem would take his switchblade out of one of the many pockets on his black Gothic pants and flip it open. He would place the cool knife against his mangled skin and drag it across slowly. I couldn't blink when the blood pooled to the surface with the movement of the blade. It was like a bubbling cauldron filled to boiling with his mass of hate. And when he did it, he always looked so serene; I wondered if it was really as relieving as he acted like it was…

He would wrap his cuts with the long, thin white bandages that martial artists use. The bandages were always stained. He did his entire routine without saying a word. Not as much as a yelp of pain would ever escape his thin, white lips.

Henrietta was our leader. She was charismatic in her own way. It wouldn't have been exaggerating to say that she was in complete control. Henrietta dominated the Goths like a queen, directing our every move as a unit. What she said was law, and I wasn't going to be the one to fight her since she could probably fuck me up.

She had taken a liking to me; I would have to have been fucking retarded not to notice it. I could always feel her violet eyes on me, examining me, probing me… I pretended to ignore it, but I wasn't going to fight it if our leader liked me the best.

It didn't seem to bother the other Goths that she favored me. It was much easier to go with Henrietta, than it was to go against her. A fact, I'm sure the others were well aware of by that point.

We spent most our time in her room. It was a haven for Goths. The floor was covered in plush, plum shaded carpeting and the walls were painted a menacing black. Posters of bands were scattered on the walls, taped shoddily, some with burn marks blacking out the musicians' eyes.

The floor was covered in candles, many of them lit and all of them dripping wax onto the carpet. A crystal ashtray on the floor was overflowing with cigarette butts. Books were piled around the room and the lush purple curtains were always pulled shut, plunging the room into near darkness.

Henrietta's bed was large and ornate. It was made of cast iron that rose in an arc of spiking pieces of metal. Heads of stuffed animals were skewered on the spikes. Their faces pulled into perpetual frowns, stitched in their fur forever more. She had a large skull armchair seated in the middle of her room like a throne. She always sat in it, overseeing us as if we were her servants, exuding a dominance over her men that was beyond my comprehension.

"Eric," Henrietta's wispy voice drew my attention to her. She smiled at me. A rarity, that so far had been awarded only to me. Her smile was cruel, but lovely. It was filled with malice and self-confidence. She demanded respect.

"Hm?"

"I want to hear one of your poems," she told me. I froze. I didn't want to read anything but I knew refusing was not an option. I snapped open the skull clasps on my bag and pulled out my notebook. I flipped it open and flipped through the grey pages to find the poem I was going to present. I chose one that was about Kyle. Actually, all of my poems were all about Kyle, in one way or another…

_**Loneliness is a disease,  
That eats me from the inside out  
My heart bleeds black  
I'm all alone with no way out**_

_**If I told you, that I love you  
Would you hold me to your heart?  
If I told you, that I need you  
Would you make it so we'd never be apart?**_

_**My loneliness consumes my soul  
I'm all alone, with no one to hold  
You threw me out in the cold  
I love you, I hate you  
GET OUT OF MY HEAD!**_

I finished and looked up at the Goths. Henrietta was smiling approvingly, her dark eyes glittering in the pale light. I felt a slight bit of satisfaction at her look of appraisal, but not enough to break my Gothic persona.

"Deep man," Flippy whispered. His throaty voice held slight compliment, though his tone remained monotonous and bored. I looked into his dull blue eyes and gulped. I could swear on my life that he could see who the poem was for.

"Yeah, deep…"

Henrietta paused for a moment. She was silent, her black lips pursed. The soft whirls of smoke from the cigarette in her left hand swirled around her head like a silvery smoking halo. She looked me over and then without breaking her gaze said, "I want a j-roll," Blair nodded and leaned over to his backpack, pulling out a small plastic bag of what looked like green soil and some small flat pieces of paper.

He dropped to his knees on the plum carpeting and slowly tapped a small amount of the pot onto a sheet of paper. The sickly sweet smell was thick in the air just from him opening the bag. My stomach dropped, I hated that smell. It was that smell that drifted from my mother's room so often when she had over her _special friends_.

Blair's pierced tongue snaked out; the stud caught the light momentarily as he licked the corner of the sheet and rolled a clean roach. He lit it with the end of his cigarette and handed it to Henrietta for the first drag. She took it long and slow, enveloping the scent and taste of the vile weed. I felt myself beginning to grow sick. I hated the smell more than anything. The sweet smell with a scent of wickedness laced throughout it. It smelled like my mother.

My mother…

As the smell and smoke of the weed enveloped the room I closed my eyes and let myself drift away. I wasn't the only one who refused the joint. Flippy chose instead to drink from a small black flask he pulled out his bag, while Salem waved it away in exchange for his blade and the sweet plume of blood.

My thoughts focused on my mother and I felt my stomach turn. Was the word even suited to a woman like her? _Mother_… they're supposed to be caring, sweet, and nurturing. Well, she cared about her next fix, was phony sweet, and nurtured her sex addiction. Is that motherly?

I guess for years I just played with her insecurities to get what I wanted out of her: toys, food, video games. It didn't matter; she always gave them to me. I tried desperately to fill my gaping hole in my life that should have been filled with motherly affection. I just stopped caring after a while and thus, here I am, sitting in a room with three drugged out Goths and a little boy who cuts himself for entertainment.

I didn't end up leaving Henrietta's until damn near one in the morning.

- 0 -

When I got home, I reeked of pot.

I went to the bathroom and showered. After I got out and dried off, I flipped up the lid of the toilet and crouched on my naked knees in front of my ceramic savior. I shoved my finger down my throat as far as it would go until I felt myself gag and the bile rise. I vomited into the toilet and stared at it for a moment. It was yellow today, speckled with brown flecks.

I coughed another few flecks out into the bowl before flushing away my daily depression in the way that I hoped so desperately would fix my problems.

As I was washing out my mouth with Listerine, I heard the door open as my mom arrived home. I spat out the green stinging liquid and walked down the stairs to find my mother sprawled out on the couch, her hair falling over her face. An open vodka bottle was clutched in her hand.

She had left the door open and I closed it in silence, taking care not to slam it. I didn't want to wake her yet.

I frowned at her slumped form. She reeked of alcohol and the same disgusting pot smell that I had just managed to wash off my body from liberal amounts of scrubbing. She was dressed in a shirt that resembled a black bra, which upon closer inspection, turned out to be a bra. Long silver chains dangled between her nearly exposed breasts. A black and purple plaid skirt hung low on her hips, a sideways studded belt on top of the skirt on an angle. There was vomit stains on the toes of her pleather stiletto boots.

I sighed; I would have to help her up to bed. I shook her slightly and she opened her dull eyes. They looked past me and her lips curved upwards in a small smile. "Hey poopshykins," she greeted me in slurred words and sloppily propped herself up, tipping slightly. "Where have you been schweetie?" she asked, rubbing her eyes, smearing mascara down her cheeks.

"I hung out at a friend's house." I told her, knowing she'd forget in a few seconds. Knowing that by morning everything I said would have rushed through her head. Knowing that by morning she would be dressed like the perfect mother and pretending that the night before she hadn't gotten high and slept with tons of men. Knowing that in the morning, everything would be the same…

"Oh? Thatsh nice." she grinned, her eyes unfocused. She tipped her head back and finished off the vodka floating in the bottom of the smudged glass. The pale lighting in the room made it look like urine. She was drinking piss. I frowned and shook my head, trying to change the image. "Can you help Mommy up the shtairs?" she asked, innocently. Like a small child requesting a cookie.

"Yeah, come on mom. I'll take you upstairs." I placed my hand on her arm in a half-hearted attempt to help her off the couch. She was so damn sloshed that she couldn't stand up straight. Suddenly, she looked up at me as if I had just stabbed a puppy and tossed my hand off of her.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she glowered at me, her glazed over eyes glaring underneath furrowed brows. I opened my mouth to say that I was helping her up like she asked, but she didn't give me the chance. "I know what you're doing, you shick little fuck! You're trying to have sexsh with Mommy!" she screeched at me, rising to her feet quickly. I took a step backward, trying to tell her that she was wrong. That I was simply trying to help her get up to bed, but she wouldn't have it.

"Mom, please—"

"SHUT UP!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. I flinched, cowering underneath her. She held the empty vodka bottle in her hand like a knife, the neck clenched in her hand. The last few drips of the urine shaded liquid dripped down her arms and wrists. "You're a fuck-up!" she announced, screeching it to the ceiling. "YOU'RE HERE TRYING TO GET INTO MY PANTSH AND THINKING YOU KNOW ME? YOU THINK I'M SUCH A FUCKING WHORE I CAN'T GET MYSHELF UP THE SHTAIRS?" her slurs made no sense and covered me in spittle and anger. She drenched me in her hatred, coating my face in her spit.

I didn't mean to, but I started to cry. An overwhelming amount of fear and loathing overtook me. I hated that woman more than anything in the entire world. The tears stung my eyes and spilled down my face, shining beacons of my weakness. Even in her intoxicated state, she didn't miss them.

"You're _crying_!" she screamed, laughing in my face with one stench filled "HA" she smelled like cum and pot. Her breath made my already wet eyes water. However, her momentary laughter at my weakness faded as soon as it had come, only to be replaced with fury. "YOU'RE WEAK, YOU LITTLE FAGGOT!" my heart stopped in my throat for an instant before I realized there was no way she could tell that I was a queer. She was just tossing insults because of how fucked up she was. She threw her vodka bottle at me and by the grace of God, I got out of the way as it smashed into the wall. I ran up the stairs amidst her screams of rage. "RUN FAGGOT BOY, RUN!"

I ran directly into my bathroom to my sweet salvation.

_If weakness is a wound that no one wants to speak of  
Then cool is just how far we have to fall  
And I am not immune; I only wanna be loved  
But I feel safe behind the firewall_

_Can I lose my need to impress?  
If you want the truth, I need to confess…_

_I'm not alright  
I'm broken inside, broken inside…  
And all I go through, it leads me to you  
It leads me to you…_

The next morning while I was getting ready for school, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I was walking out the door. I am thinning out. My black Goth pants were hanging low on my hips and my coat has begun to engulf my body, but I don't see it. The scale says that I've lost twenty-one pounds, but no matter what the scale says, I still look fat. A mountain of lard peering into the mirror from underneath brown bangs. _Disgusting._

At school, I stood at my locker alone, quietly piling books onto my arms. Usually, Henrietta and the other Goths would wait while I got my books before they went out behind the school to smoke but none of them were there today.

Henrietta sometimes skipped school to go to midday poetry readings at _Benny's_ and get high with Blair. I didn't bother with drugs, so they usually didn't invite me. Flippy rarely got high either but he still went with them on most occasions, though I knew that he was busy today sleeping off the bottle of scotch he had chugged last night. And as for Salem, he was in Middle School. But I didn't feel any sadness at his failure to skip school as he often did to join me at my locker. Fucking freak.

I closed my locker and turned to find myself nearly touching noses with Kyle Broflovski.

My heart stopped beating. I could feel his breath on me; it smelled like mint and sugar. I could feel the uncomfortable hardening beneath my baggy pants. I was so close, close enough to…

"Cartman," I snapped back to reality and took a large step backwards, replacing my look of lust with one of feigned hatred. It was extremely difficult, since he was dressed in a sexy blue tee shirt that caressed his six-pack and a pair of ripped jeans that hugged his tight ass. He looked absolutely delectable. I nearly drooled on myself.

"What the fuck do you want, Jew?" I snarled, but he looked completely unfazed. He didn't come to let me ruffle his feathers. He'd obviously come to… oh who was I kidding? I had no idea what the fuck he'd come to do!

"What's with all this Goth shit?" he asked, gesturing to my outfit. I shrugged and glowered at his beautiful creamy face, sprinkled with freckles like a soft dusting of pepper. How I longed to run my fingers across each one in turn. I wanted to tell him so, but fought it.

"What do you care?" I asked furiously, "You're too busy with your small tits girlfriend!" his fists clenched as I took yet another misplaced stab at Rebecca Coutswald. He ground his teeth. He looked like he was going to hit me. I didn't exactly blame him, not with all the times I'd insulted that girl simply because I was terribly jealous of her.

"I don't care." He told me, dropping his gaze to my feet.

"Then leave me the hell alone,"

"Maybe I don't want to."

"Maybe you should, you goddamned Jew!" he pushed me as soon as I said the word Jew. My back slammed into the lockers and a lock jammed into the small of my back, sending a searing pain up my spine. I let out a yelp.

A guttural sound escaped my lips and threw my books to the floor with a huge bang. The clatter caught the attention of the other students in the hallway; they began to gather around us encouraging us to fight. I threw a right hook, but Kyle easily dodged it with spectacular form honed from years of basketball and I flew past him. He kicked me in my back and I sailed forward, my face slamming into the tile. "Had enough, fat boy? Why don't you just stop being a dick? You're never going to win."

Shakily pushing myself up, I turned on him like a wolf preparing for the kill. I nailed him in the stomach, putting all of my weight behind my clenched fist. I rained blows on him until his fist collided with the bridge of my nose.

"**Eric, STOP! NO!"** my conscious begged. I was taking out my pent-up aggression and love on the very object of my affection in a sick metaphorical way of trying to express the feelings. Blood was dripping out of my nose and into my open mouth as I struggled for breath and Kyle's lip was bleeding. There was a nasty gash on my cheek. I was dripping tons of blood onto the tile that was as red as Kyle's hair. I stood up and growled "Fuck you,"

He glared directly into my eyes before throwing a running tackle into my gut that knocked the air from my lungs. We slammed into the ground with him on top of me and our eyes locked and for a moment, we stopped moving. The world around me faded into nothingness. The pain in my eye and back ceased to be and the catcalls faded into silence as I was trapped in those emerald pools.

I wanted to kiss him, but fearing that he could feel my boner against his leg, I did the only thing I could think of. I used my palm and uppercut his chin to send him flying. I pushed myself to my feet unsteadily.

- 0 -

I waited in the nurse's office while Kyle was in with the principal. Nurse Roberts gave me a paper towel to stem the bleeding from my nose while she dabbed anesthetic on my cheek. The sting made me cringe. I sucked a quick breath of air between my teeth. She put a bandage over the cut.

Bebe Stevens entered the Clinic.

Her eye was puffed up and purpling. Her shiner was even worse than mine. It looked fresh too, like someone had just made it. The nurse looked at her and didn't even blink. It was as if she was unimpressed by the huge black and blue monster engulfing the tiny blonde's face like Indian war paint. Nurse Roberts nodded and jerked her head towards the beds. She turned away from us to write Bebe's name down in the log.

Bebe sat next to me on the hard plastic bed and folded her skeleton fingers. She looked even thinner than she had a few weeks ago. Her wrists were bony and protruding, the skin was pulled over them so tightly they may have ripped. Her skin was so pasty it looked almost see though.

She looked over at me and I smiled slightly. "What happened to you?" I asked, playfully "Walk into a door?"

Bebe grinned, touching her swollen eye "Yeah, I fell down the stairs." She joked, laughing weakly. I was afraid if she laughed too hard she might collapse into herself like a paper lantern.

The nurse turned to back towards us and handed an ice pack to Bebe to place over her eye. "What happened this time, Bebe?" she asked, unable to hide her skepticism. As I suspected, Nurse Roberts must have been used to seeing the frizzy haired blonde in her office. Bebe swallowed, I could her tiny Adam's apple bob in her throat.

"I g—got hit in the eye with a baseball in Gym," she stuttered her explanation.

"More like baseball bat!" I muttered out of the corner of my mouth. She glared at me. I ignored her and turned away, pressing the tissue to my nose.

I could feel Bebe shaking like a leaf while Nurse Roberts stared her down, searching her pallor face for the truth. She sighed and shook her head. "You need to be more careful." She said, looking directly into Bebe's watering brown eyes. Her cynicism bled through every word.

We left the Nurse's Office at the same time, walking side-by-side. It was already lunch and truth be told, I didn't feel like going to any of my classes. Bebe looked over at me, "So, what happened to you?" she asked, politely gesturing to my busted nose and bandaged cheek.

"Got in a fight," I said gruffly.

"Oh, so you're the bad ass now, huh Cartman?" she smiled gently, the mere gesture made her skin stretch over her bones to a point where it might rip. "Who did you fight with?" she pressed, the curiosity in her voice was evident. _Heh_, it had been over six years since we last spoke one-on-one and she was still as big of a gossip as she had been in the fourth grade.

I glanced at her from underneath my slashed brown bangs. "I got into a fight with Kyle." I admitted, staring down at my feet. Suddenly, she burst out laughing. I looked over at her. "What's so funny?"

"I'm just really, really not surprised." She told me, flipping her blonde curls with a quick flick of her scrawny wrist. I frowned, once she spotted the look on my face and giggled again. "Well, would you be? You and that boy have been at each other's throats since you were in diapers. I'm surprised you're even still friends!" she laughed to herself and I felt a stab of pain. I knew that Bebe had no intention to upset me, but she was right. Kyle and I were always fighting. If only she knew why…

"We're not."

"What?"

"We're not friends." My voice shook more than I intended it too. My eyes were locked on my black and white star shoelaces. I could feel tears forming in the corner of my good eye. Kyle and I _weren't _friends anymore. It was obvious he didn't consider us friends. I was finished with Kyle and he was most definitely finished with me.

"Oh," Bebe whispered, then seeing me she added "I'm sorry." I shook my head, telling her that it was nothing to worry about. She smiled weakly, playing with the hem of her shirt. "Hey, wanna blow this joint? We don't really look too suited for class." She laughed and took my hand. I baulked. "Let's get some coffee."

- 0 -

The coffee shop was dim. The smell of cigarette smoke and marijuana hung heavy in the air. Barely anyone was in the shop and thankfully, I didn't see any of the Goths. I didn't want to have to explain Bebe to Henrietta. She directed me to a corner table and went up to the counter to order us drinks. She got us two steaming lattes. She paid for them and brought them back to the table.

The drinks she placed in front of us were served in fancy glass mugs with whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon. It was by far the gayest drink I had ever laid eyes on, but my God it was delicious. I practically chugged the whole thing in two minutes. We drank in silence.

Finally, Bebe spoke, "So Cartman, why so Goth?" she asked, swirling a biscotti in her latte. She pulled it out and took a bite. Chewing slowly, she looked up at me, waiting for an answer I didn't have.

"I…" I stuttered over my words. I looked down at my nearly empty glass and frowned. Why had I gone Goth? Why had I chosen this path? Was it simply because I was in love with Kyle and wanted to avoid him or was it something deeper? Over the last three weeks, never had I once considered why I had made this decision in the first place. I settled on an answer, "I needed to get away from the dickweeds friends I was with for people who understand me better."

She frowned and sipped her latte. "That's so brave of you." She whispered into the glass, the steam from her mouth fogged the sides. I looked up at her inquiringly, I was quite positive that absolutely nothing about me was brave.

"What?"

"Well, I mean… to be able to just _stop_ like that. To just say no more, that's really cool." I could see the tears in the corners of her doe eyes. She looked like she was going to cry when she met my gaze. Why was she telling me all of this? Why was I here? What did she want?

"Bebe, what are you talking about?" I asked her. Her gaze became pained. She bit her lip and shook her head ferociously. I was almost afraid that the pounding of her frizzy locks on her face would shatter the thin bones.

"N—nothing," she covered badly, chugging the rest of her latte in mere seconds. She slammed the glass down on the table and wiped the condensation from her forehead.

"Bebe, you're not telling me something." I pressed; for once I was actually heeding my conscious without it actually having to speak to me. I could see someone in trouble and I wasn't running away. I was actually just offering my services without any pressure from my conscious. What in the world had happened to Eric Cartman?

"I SAID IT WAS NOTHING!" she screamed, the tears fell freely down her sallow face now. She stood up abruptly and ran from the coffee shop. I sat at the table, staring at her empty glass. Well, for once I tried to be nice and look how it turned out for me. I was most definitely never, ever going to make that mistake again. I shook my head. I would just stick with the Goths and remain completely impervious to any type of human emotion.

"**Shut up, Eric."**

- 0 -

When I got home, my mother was cooking. She was dressed in a green turtleneck with a long gold chain around her neck and tasteful corduroys. It was just one of the many outfits she kept in her secondary wardrobe. The one she wore when she was trying to pass herself off as a human being instead of a sperm dumpster.

She whistled while she stirred what was on the stove. I studied her movements with dull observation. A stray wisp of her brown hair had escaped her perfect bun to fall on her forehead. She looked like the picture perfect mother. It was like she had danced off the cover of _Good Housekeeping_ and into our kitchen, but I knew everything was a façade. I wondered why I bothered with it anymore. I should just call her out on it.

"Hey pookie!" Mom squealed when she spotted me, her eyes lit up with faux affection. I wish she could've seen herself last night. "I'm making a stew, would my cuddle muffin like some?" she cooed the question to me as if I was a child.

"No,"

She stopped stirring abruptly and turned to me, "Why? Poopsy, you haven't been eating a lot lately. What's going on?" she pressed slightly. My mother's voice was so saccharine sweet it was like being spoken to by a pixie stick.

I swallowed, I didn't want her to catch on and I could always puke it up, "Fine, bring it up to my room." I told her. I walked out of the room without another word. Mr. Kitty wound between my legs as I walked into the living room. I stopped for a moment and picked her up. I carried her up the stairs and into my room.

"You're food will be up in a minute my Sweetie Bunny!" my mother called up the stairs as I closed the door on her voice.

I sat Mr. Kitty on my bed and lay next to her. I stroked her soft as silk charcoal fur with the tips of my fingers and sighed. My breath blew her fur in the opposite direction. She looked at me with wide green eyes filled with loving adoration. She was the only one who truly loved me. She didn't see the nastiness in me. She couldn't. How could she? Her simple green eyes that could see so much at the same time saw so very little. They drifted closed as I stroked her fur. The soft rumble of her purr filled the floating silence of my room.

I reached over to my bedside table and grabbed my notebook and pen. I flipped it open to a blank page and began to write, pouring my tortured soul out onto the pages. My mother, Bebe, Kyle, the Goths, everything…

I could hear my mother whistling downstairs. She thought we had the perfect fairy tale life, that we were the greeting card family, minus of course the father. I guess I never had the heart to tell her exactly how wrong she was. That our entire life was a façade, that every time she put on a nice outfit, anyone who knew her realized that underneath it was her trashy lingerie and the crotchless panties. Everyone knew that she had no idea who my fucking father was. That she was a coke head and a total god damned whore. It was as if she thought the whole world was oblivious to her fuck ups. Or to mine, like no one knew that her son was a sordid asshole. Fucking greeting card family...

_Yeah Right._


	6. A Sinner's Blood

_**READ THIS OR DIE:**_

_**Over The Course Of The Last Few Months**_**: My father had heart failure, my grandmother was diagnosed with ovarian cists and lung cancer, and my grandfather had major surgery. I had to struggle to stay in school and graduate. After I did I got in a car accident and broke my collarbone in half and couldn't sit up by myself let alone type. Then I started College. After that I got sick again. Three times. I also got a stalker. Christmas. After Christmas my dog was put down and I was too devastated to do anything. Shortly after that, I fell down the stairs and re-hurt the same side I broke. This year has SUCKED! VIVA 2010!**

Now, now my loving reviewers… don't you worry about such things like being out of character. Really, FanFictions are not supposed to be set in stone as the original characters. Look at the wonderful Bagatelle's _Under My Bed_, while both Tweek and Craig are emphasized with their base characteristics, she builds on them in her own twisting way for her story's premise. Somehow I don't think Craig is really bipolar. Please respect that of mine as well. And remember!_ Just because I use a character negatively does not mean I hate them, it's for the story._

Can I tell you all something…? You are so sweet to me, when you tell me that this inspired you it really means something to me. It makes a bad day good and I wish that you were at my school with me, at my lunch table, chilling next to me exchanging story ideas. You're the sweetest of the sweet people on this planet.

KENNY IS RE-APPEARING! Can anyone guess why he is behaving the way he is? I bet you can't! No, I'm sure you can. You're smart. This is also _the _chapter because Eric begins cutting. Out of all the things in this story, cutting is the one I _did _do. I know what it is like to hate your body. Though I hated mine because I was sick, not overweight. I hated being sick all the time and blamed my "messed up body." On a better note, I have learned how to deal with my chronic illness better through medication and physical therapy and get sick less. So I am feeling much better about it emotionally too.

The last chapter brought up questions on my views on drugs. "Drugs are bad, M'kay?" That aside, I usually try to be tolerant of people who do them. At least the less intense ones like pot and alcohol. I do not believe in prescription medicine abuse and I _really _don't like it when people who let it consume them. The thing is, if you know me, you know I have a chronic illness. It's called Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It is an autonomic illness that is the result of mono and is further exacerbated by a genetic condition called Ehlers Danalos Syndrome.

POTS is a neurological disorder which is manifested by delays in the body's autonomic responses. These are things your body does without having to think about it: heartbeat, blood pressure, eye focus, hearing, sweating, etc. The Epstein Barr (mono) virus lives latent in my system causing Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. POTS patients have a hard time controlling their blood pressure and heart rate, pass out easily, can have difficulty with hearing and focus, are more susceptible to illness, and are slower to heal.

Due to this, I am on more than thirty plus pills a day. I have a lot of body issues because of it. I can't understand "recreational" drugs. I have this shitty body. One I would do anything to make better and here these people are with lovely, normal bodies and they're RUINING them. It makes no sense to me. Also; I love my mind. I would prefer not to be out of it. Some people like to fuck with their perceptions because they want to escape something or "have fun". I feel "high" when I don't take my pills or take the wrong ones. I hated it. I felt like I was trapped in the worst world. I have no athletic skills due to illness, but I am smart. I love my brain; nothing scared me more than it not working at full capacity.

My last reason? I am crazy enough as it is, if my comedy writing is any indication. I don't need any "help" to loosen up and have fun with my friends. If you can't open up with the people you consider your best friends without a drink or a joint, they are NOT your friends. Friends should not be united simply because they smoke pot or drink a lot. They are _supposed _to have similarities with you. I just don't think friendship should be based on mutual affection for a substance.

Again, I try my hardest to be tolerant but it so hard for me to comprehend. I am sorry for that, but I am the way I am.

**Main Pair: **Eric/Kyle  
**Secondary Pair:** Stan/Wendy  
**Featured Pairs:** Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Mark  
**Mentioned Pairs: **Bebe/Clyde, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

**Warnings:** In this story, Eric becomes _bulimic_ and begins _cutting_. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

**Dedications:**This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone  
Fanfiction and Poem © Courtney Dracon (Me)

Songs:  
"My Own Prison" by Creed**  
**"Imperfection" by Skillet

* * *

**Chapter Six:**** A Sinner's Blood**

Is love supposed to hurt?

Is it supposed to fill you with a feeling of emptiness that is nearly unbearable? Is it normal if every time you see him you fill yourself drifting into a deep feeling of emptiness? Yet, when you cannot see him your life becomes stoic. You fall into a deep cataclysm filled with nothing but your own cynicism and self-loathing…

Is love supposed to make you want to punish yourself for your feelings? Should I want to slice my body to ribbons for wanting him so? Is love supposed to do this to you? Is love supposed to be something you fear or something of myth? Is it even real?

I have never felt love; I am undeserving of such an admirable concept. If love is real it is an element of fairy tales. Or at least the lives that seem like fairy tales in comparison to the sordid string of misdeeds I have come to call my existence.

_Love stinks…_

_A court is in session, a verdict is in  
No appeal on the docket today  
Just my own sin  
The walls cold and pale, the cage made of steel  
Screams fill the room  
Alone I drop and kneel_

Silence now the sound  
My breath the only motion around  
Demons clutter around, my face showing no emotion  
Shackled by my sentence, expecting no return  
Here there is no penance  
My skin begins to burn

It has been two months and I have lost thirty-five pounds. My face looks sallow and my clothes fit looser, but I do not look any thinner when I look in the mirror. No matter what the fucking scale says I see a fatass staring back at me.

My fingers are gnarled and bruised. I think I may have broken one from shoving it down my throat so forcefully. My teeth are more sensitive to food, so I eat even less. I can see red shredding on my tongue and my throat feels like an eagle has been clawing at it. But I don't care, all I want is to be thin.

My mother hasn't noticed my sudden weight loss. Not that this surprises me. She has not noticed the ever-present smell of vomit and Lysol in my bathroom, nor has she realized that I run to that fragrant room after every meal. Frankly, I don't think she's even noticed the fact that I've become Goth. She's too busy being a whore to notice much of anything I do.

When I'm with the Goths, I do not talk very much.

Henrietta has me at her side at all times. She lets her fingers drift over my hair like a pet. Her square-cut nails twirl through my chestnut locks absentmindedly. I do not say a word, but she makes it quite obvious that I'm her favorite. She comments lightly on my clothing, telling me in her unmistakably sexual whisper, how delectable I look. I never thank her for her compliments, I just nod my appreciation. I try desperately to play into her flirtations as best I can as not to lead her onto the true gender of my affections.

But really, you'd think with the other three her gay-dar would be more astute…

- 0 -

I haven't spoken to Kyle since our fight. I don't expect to. He doesn't even look at me when we pass in the hallways. It's not as if he's purposefully avoiding my gaze either. It's just as if I don't exist…

Bebe Stevens is another story.

She locks eyes with mine at every opportunity before averting them like one would at the site of a grisly accident. I can't blame her. I must look like a walking blob floating down the hallways. Bebe's black eye has faded, but it seems like she always has new bruises on her somewhere. Deep red finger shaped marks cover her bony wrists and she's constantly favoring at least one of her limbs. And of course, she's never without her bodyguard beau Clyde and his ever present sentry of Jason, D.P., Kevin, and Rick.

My conscious has quieted lately. I guess I must have detached it again after the incident with Bebe or maybe I just don't need its prompting anymore…

- 0 –

When I walk out back behind the school to the Gothic hangout, I find Kenny.

This surprises me. I never see Kenny anymore. He barely shows up at the bus stop in the morning and when he does, he usually keeps to himself. He doesn't even talk to Kyle or Stan anymore. We had a couple of classes together at the beginning of the year but he missed them so much the teacher stopped looking for him at role.

He looks terrible. Like a walking corpse. His eyes are sunken back and his skin is paper thin and greasy. It's a sickening shade of yellow that looks almost green, like an old taco shell. He looks poorer than usual, if that's possible. His orange hoodie is covered in grime and burn marks. He is shaking. I've never seen him so jittery. Something tells me that his gross weight loss isn't just due to his poverty.

I'm jealous of how thin he is.

When the door slams he looks up at me. His big baby blue eyes widen in surprise. "Hey Cartman, long time no see." He doesn't sound like himself. He's smiling too much, itching at his left arm feverishly.

"Yeah"

"You sure look Goth" he tells me. I raise an eyebrow. _Why yes, I know_. Asshole. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his hoodie. He fumbles them, trying to pull one out. It nearly falls from his trembling fingers. I can see every single bone in his fingers. Each digit as they shake. His nails are bitten to the wick and bleeding. I can't help myself anymore, I have to ask.

"Kenny, what the fuck is wrong with you man? You look like hell." I shake my head. Kenny flashes me another smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. He lights the cigarette. It takes him a couple tries, since he keeps dropping the matches. After a drag he speaks.

"It's nothing man. Just this and that. It's bull shit you know?"

His answer makes so little sense I can do nothing but nod in faux agreement. He takes another shaky drag from the cig and coughs as he attempts to exhale. After a few intense minutes of what sound like Kenny attempting to hack up a piece of tar, he spits. His spittle is black. He wipes tears from his eyes and looks over at me, still smiling like a fucking idiot. I raise a brow.

"Hey Cartman, can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"How do you do it?

"Do what?"

"Deal with it…" he flicks the ashes from the end of the cigarette and looks at me again. His eyes are shining with odd intensity. "Deal with being you. Being someone no one likes?" he looks at me directly. It takes everything I have to keep my mouth from dropping open. If bluntness was snow, he would be Antarctica.

"I—I don't…"

Kenny cuts me off. "Dude, forget I said anything. It's just like, I wonder if you hate you. Ya know? If everyone else hates you does that mean you hate yourself too? And if you do what do you do to deal with it? I mean… is there even a way to change who you are as a person?" He talks fast. His words blur together but each one hits me like a knife to the heart. He stubs out his cigarette and meets my gaze again, patting my shoulder he says "I'm just talking to myself. Forget it. Forget it. I'm thinking out loud. It's nothing." And with that he goes back inside the building. The sound of the doors slamming behind him seems deafening.

I sit there with my back to the school. The cold winter wind smacking me in the face like thousands of angry hands. My thoughts are consumed with Kenny's words. _Is there even a way to change?_ I don't know. I feel like banging my head against the brick wall. I DON'T KNOW! How the FUCK am I supposed to know how to change? I thought losing weight would solve my problems but I'm getting thinner and people still hate me. They still stare at me like I'm an abomination. I'm a horrible person no matter what size I am! _IS THERE ANYWAY TO CHANGE? _Am I stuck like this? Am I stuck being Eric Cartman forever? I feel like crying.

I don't know what to think.

My brain is filled with television static. There has to be a way to fix me. There just has too. If I was normal even Kyle could like me. Right? Even Kyle. My thoughts are whirring faster than the ever texting fingers of a teenage girl. They go in circles. My thoughts keep returning to my body. This is my body's fault. _If I wasn't stuck in this body…_

It hits me like a ton of bricks. I know what I have to do. Grabbing my backpack I rip the zipper open so forcefully it nearly breaks. I scavenge through the jumble of papers with such purpose I shred anything that gets in my way. I finally feel it. My supply bag. I pull it out of my bag and open it.

With trembling fingers I extract my salvation from the supply bag's depths. My compass.

I open the compass to sixty-two degrees exactly and pull up my sleeve. I stare at the pale skin on my arm. My fat disgusting white arm. My veins are a pale robins' egg blue and bulge out like worms trapped beneath the earth, snaking down my arm. This body is repulsive. This body is why I am so fucked up. This body is why everyone hates me. I place the cold metal to my skin and hesitate slightly.

_Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it._

I can hear my own voice, pushing me to mutilate myself. Pushing me to destroy this filthy sack I was punished to reside in. I am going to free myself from my sins by punishing the sin itself. My body. I dig the compass into my wrist and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out in pain. Pressing down with as much strength as I can muster due to the pain, I drag the metal spike horizontally across my skin. I watch the blood as it rises to the surface.

Sweet, crimson purity flows from within me. My self-loathing bubbles to the surface of my wrist, a mass of hatred gushing from me. I am draining myself of my sin. I can see the evil as it streams down my arm in liquid form. It smells like copper, like new pennies. New. I am being renewed.

I drop the compass to the ground. It clatters on the concrete, a small splatter of blood on the snow. My arm is bleeding rather profusely, pouring down onto the ground and staining my clothes.

I feel serene.

Watching the small river of blood as it drips onto the ground I feel no pain, just numbness. I close my eyes and feel my tears fall from my them and into the wound like sweet salty kisses, cleansing me of sin.

_You're worth so much  
It'll never be enough, to see what you have to give  
How beautiful you are  
Yet seem so far, from everything you wanted to be  
Wanted to be…_

Tears falling down, again  
Tears falling down

You fall to your knees  
You beg, You plead  
Can I be somebody else for all the times I hate myself?  
Your failures devour, you're hurting every hour  
You're drowning in your Imperfection…

When I arrive home, I stripped and shoved my clothes into the washer. I am not much for laundry, so I just smeared the Stain Stick over every inch of fabric and stuck them in the machine with at least a gallon of detergent. Wow, since I became Goth I have really started doing more chores what with cleaning the bathroom constantly and now I was doing my own laundry.

I fed Mr. Kitty and left her in the kitchen to eat. I walked up to my room and pulled on a loose pair of black sweats and a _The Cure _tee shirt. I dropped my bag on the ground and sat on my bed, staring at my arm.

The bleeding had stopped, but the cuts were still fresh. Deep, gaping wounds stared up at me. It was as if I could see into my mind through the gashes on my arm. They were pretty, in a morbid way, like a thin, red map of my life and self-hatred. Twisting paths of evil, finally visible to the rest of the world. Now everyone could see the evil inside me. I had opened the mirror into my soul.

I lay back on the bed. Now that my wave of self-loathing had passed I had a little more time to reflect on the events behind the school. What was going on with Kenny? He looked horrible and was acting like a fucking freak. Not that I had room to talk, but still. Wasn't Kyle keeping an eye on him? Kyle always looked out for Kenny.

Ah, there he was again. Kyle Broflovski. The boy never left my mind for too long. I rolled onto my side and stared blankly at the wall. I wished I could stop thinking about him. I wished I didn't feel about him the way I did. I wondered if draining the blood from my body would stop my heart and all the feelings that went along with it.

I sighed.

I decided to write. I wanted to get all these feelings out. I leaned off my bed and dug through my bag for my notebook. My fingers touched my compass, hastily shoved to the bottom of my bag. There were still flecks of dried blood on it. I felt warm.

I grabbed my notebook and pulled it out.

I wrote for hours. Poem after poem filled the pages. Like my blood from my arms and my food from my stomach I drained my feelings from my heart with each line. My heart spilled out onto each page. My unholy love.

_My Sin…_


	7. The Hole

Thank you for waiting guys. I love you.

This chapter is rather long, sadly the end is a little choppy. Forgive me.

The Hole is something I invented. It's an underground "scream-o" club in Denver, since I figured South Park doesn't have a large enough Goth population to cater to such things. I don't want to hear that shit like I had to last time "MCR is not a Goth band" and whatever. Fuck off. It's fiction. I'm sure plenty of Goths listen to "scream-o" and go to underground clubs. I don't think the South Park Goths are really stereotypically Gothic anyway.

I also do not claim to know the layout of Denver. I did some research but as much as I love this story, I don't care if _The Hole_ could really fit somewhere in Denver's nasty underbelly. Again, it's fiction. No one maps out anything for a fiction when it comes to geography. At least I hope not, it seems like a waste. All street names, if mentioned (they will be avoided if possible), are made up.

The headlining band at "The Hole" is _Coffee for Killers_.

Just so everyone knows, I am claiming a full copy write for _Coffee for Killers_. The band was my idea and the name, my invention. I am sure tons of stories have a small group of boys in a band but this one is mine. The name _Coffee for Killers _was invented by Craig and Tweek. They formed the band and are dating. Tweek is the coffee and Craig the killer. It was not uncommon in fanfiction up until Craig got more screen time on the show, for Craig to be portrayed as a bit unbalanced and utterly dominant. He has now been shown by Trey and Matt as being more sardonic with a very dry sense of humor. I still like him to be just a little bit on the crazy side.

However; Craig Tucker, no matter his character development, will always be dominant. Tweek is nothing but a bottom.

A couple notes. This is NOT going to become a hetero story. On the other hand, this is dealing with a little known and little discussed topic. Female to Male sexual assault. It happens and it is very real. When Henrietta touches Eric without his permission it is sexual assault. Her using her power and intimidating him into letting her do what she wants is no different than a man doing the same thing. I am a BIG advocate of women's rights and I want to end violence against women. However; I am also for equality and proving that I want to show that everyone is capable of sexual violence.

Also; I am not racist. Cartman has some racist tendencies. I thought that was important to work in, since this is a first person story.

Hopefully the story will begin moving faster now. I have the whole story planned out. Every single detail, but sometimes I have trouble deciding when things should be revealed and what should go where in what order. I am working to remedy that.

******Words in _italics _with slashes in quotes are lyrics being sung, not speech. "_This is a lyric/You lovely reader_"

**Main Pair: **Eric/Kyle  
**Secondary Pair:** Stan/Wendy  
**Featured Pairs:** Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Mark  
**Mentioned Pairs: **Bebe/Clyde, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

**Warnings:** In this story, Eric becomes _bulimic_ and begins _cutting_. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

**Dedications:**This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone  
FanFiction, Coffee for Killers & CFK Lyrics © Courtney Dracon (LuffySP)

Songs:  
"Playing God" by Paramore**  
**"Addicted" by Saving Abel

* * *

**Chapter Seven:**** The Hole**

When one lies, does he lose a bit of himself? With every untruth does a piece of the soul escape through the mouth, forever attached to the white lie he has just told? If this is so, there is nearly nothing left to Eric Cartman. For I have lied more times than I can count.

My life is a constant lie. A string of deceit surrounds me. I feed into it like a drug addict searching for his next fix. Another lie and I will be satisfied; just one more and it will all be okay.

I am sheltered and shielded from the truth, locked away in a shit stained cage high above my filthy existence. It wasn't until I was much older that I found out who my father was. Some ginger freak who fucked my mother on a bar room floor. His agent had paid my mother to keep her mouth shut. She had pushed the town to follow suit. Money and a good season for the Broncos was more important that my knowing the truth behind my paternity.

But the truth is scarier than any lie I have ever told. I would rather die a soulless liar that let anyone know the truth behind this façade. As soon as the curtain is lifted and everyone sees the sad creature sitting behind it running the machine, the secrets of my existence will be revealed and I will be ruined. I will be the Wizard of Oz, stripped of power and forced to resign to a life even more solitary than the one I live now. If death does not find me first…

The truth does not set you free. It traps you in a web of lies.

_If Gods the game that you're playing  
Well we must get more acquainted  
Because it has to be so lonely to be the only one who's holy  
It's just my humble opinion but it's one that I believe in  
You don't deserve a point of view  
If the only thing you see is you  
Woah_

You don't have to believe me  
But the way I, way I see it  
Next time you point a finger I might have to bend it back  
Or break it, break it off  
Next time you point a finger I'll point you to the mirror

Henrietta called.

She told me to dress hot because we were going to The Hole. Blair would be by to pick me up in twenty minutes. She didn't wait for me to reply with whether or not I could go before she hung up. If she decided I was going somewhere, I was damned well going.

I tossed my cell aside and pulled on a slightly tighter pair of black pants with chains and bell bottoms. My clothing was fitting loosely now. I tugged a neon green tee shirt over my head and added a black and gray thick-striped zip-up hoodie. I made sure my make-up was "Gothic" enough and waited for Blair on the front stoop.

Blair was seventeen. He was the oldest Goth and the only one with a license. He owned a shitty little two door red Maxima that was falling apart. The back was covered in bumper stickers that were pealing and faded. His license plate read NONCNFST. He pulled up right on time, _The Shroud _pouring out of the speakers at top volume. The rest of the Goths were already jammed into the metal junkheap. Henrietta, of course, took precedence over the rest of us and received the front seat. Flippy and Salem were confined to the back.

I didn't want to get in the car.

I knew I would have to literally climb over Henrietta to get back there because she sure as hell wasn't getting out and letting me pull the seat forward and slide in comfortably. I hesitated in getting off my front stoop, but an angry car horn blast from my leading lady set a fire under my ass.

When Henrietta opened her door, I noticed how little she was wearing. A strapless blood red, corset top with a sheer black skirt that barely reached mid thigh greeted me with way more of Henrietta than I ever cared to see. I did my best to raise my leg as high as I could so that there was no possible way that any part of my body would come in contact with hers. I managed to get a knee on the parking brake; my body raised ever-so-slightly above the danger zone when I felt square cut nails grip my package through my pants.

I was so shocked by this sudden intrusion that I fell forward, on top of her. I was mortified. Disgusted. I wanted to cry. The first person to ever touch that area other than myself and it was a woman.

My nose was still centimeters from hers and she whispered, in a deep sultry voice only loud enough for me to hear "Nice."

I turned redder than her corset and scrambled furiously over her into the back seat. I squeezed in between Flippy and Salem, biting back the tears that were begging to come out.

- 0 -

The Hole was an underground scream-o club in Denver. The place was a dive. It smelled like shit and had a maximum capacity of about twenty-five people. However; it also didn't check ID and usually allowed about one hundred or more people to flow in and out during a heavy night.

Henrietta took my hand and led me in. It reminded me of something out of the mind of Jhonen Vasquez. The walls were peeling and the only lighting was strobe lights. The stage was small, but high up enough that the throngs of people could see the bands. There was also the distinct smell of pot and alcohol in the air mixed with the pungent odor of sex. _Ah, just like Mama_.

The moment we entered the club, the Goths spread out, save for Henrietta, who stayed stuck to my side as if by super glue. I was lead to a table and forced to sit. Henrietta was talking to me, but I wasn't paying attention. I didn't want to, not after what happened in the car. I nodded every so often but allowed my eyes to drift around the place.

There was glow in the dark splatter paint on the walls, it was peeling. Most of it was neon purple and an odd reddish-pink color that made it look as if an alien had been slaughtered in the place. The tables were small, high, and round with high barstools with small little backs. They had these ghoulish iron-looking centerpieces that looked like crawling ivory wrapped around a glass candle holder. Though instead of candles, the holder was filled with straws and sugar for coffee. No one seemed to use the sugar. The Goth thing to do was pour alcohol into black coffee.

A small bar sat along the back wall. It was equipped with only about four stools and a nymphet bartender. There was a sign above it that said they carded, but it didn't seem to apply since everything seemed to be BYOB anyway.

The stage was on the complete other side. There weren't even speakers attached to the front since the whole place was so small the band could just use their own amps and be heard just fine. Hell, they could play acoustic and it would probably sound like they were in a fucking stadium. There was a tiny blackboard easel next to the stage that they wrote the names of the bands on. Tonight, the glow in the dark neon markers scribbled out, _Coffee for Killers_. I had to wonder about that one. _What the hell kind of band calls themselves that?_

Henrietta decided to go take a piss really quick and grab an (irish) coffee before the show started. When she left, I closed my eyes. I wanted to rest, erase every second of my life that had lead up to this one. Every bad memory and every horrible event. I was beginning to reach a zen like state of total forgetfulness, most likely facilitated by a contact high, when I heard a voice I recognized. My eyelids shot up and my gaze was drawn to the table adjacent to mine.

"Kenny?"

"Cartman!" Kenny turned, surprised. I glanced at his company. He was chatting up some unsavory looking black guy with his dreads pulled up into a pony-tail on top of his head that made him look like a pineapple and far too many piercings in his face. Kenny looked shocked, no horrified, to see me. "What are you doing here?"

"My friends and I came to see the band." I told him, raising a brow skeptically. He was jittery again. I felt like I had interrupted an important conversation between him and Mr. Pineapple but I didn't care. Men who look like fruit and their feelings have never really been on the top of my priorities list.

"O—oh" Kenny stuttered. He kept looking back at Pineapple Guy, who was looking more and more impatient with each passing second, "I'm—I'm just here to hang out with Julius." He indicated the man-fruit, who I could only assume was Mr. _Julius_. "We're just um…chilling I guess." He dropped his voice suddenly and started to speak very cautiously. His eyes weren't meeting mine, he was eyeing Julius, "Look, I'll talk to you later. I have some shit to handle. Kyle's here with that girlfriend of his, talk to him."

"_Kyle's here!_" I exclaimed, my voice cracking.

"Whoa, don't freak out so much, fatass." He shook his head, before he and Julius stepped out the back door to talk in the alley behind the club. A pang shot through my stomach. He called me fat without even a second thought; it was as if the word was so ingrained in his system it slipped out before he thought about it. I was truly doomed to being fat forever, no matter how skinny I got. I looked down at the table. However; the thought didn't stay with me long as the weight of Kenny's words hit me. _Kyle was here_. I began to look around, wondering, _Why?_

"_Why was he here? Where was he? What was he doing?" _Questions whirled through my head faster than I could quash them. I wanted to see him. I wanted to see Kyle.

My thoughts were cut short as a voice began to scream into the mic, "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Please welcome, _Coffee for Killers_!" another all too familiar voice drew my attention to the stage. If I had been drinking anything, I would've spit it out.

Craig Tucker. Craig motherfucking Tucker, stood in the middle of the stage, dressed in black skinny jeans and a tight blue and black plaid hoodie. I thought I had seen it all, but that was until the rest of the band walked out onto the stage. Tweek Tweak, the little blonde spazoid ambled out with a guitar strapped around his frail body. Butters Stoch, who was now insisting everyone call him _Leo_ was positioned behind the drums. And _Token Black _was on bass. I told that black motherfucker he knew how to play bass.

No wonder Kyle was here, he was friends with the band.

Craig cued the band and they started their first song. An explosion of sound washed over me and to my utter surprise, they were good. They reminded me of The Used. Craig was an unexpectedly good singer. He had a tenor voice with a gravelly undertone, perfect for emo and gothic style music. Their songs were very loud. It wasn't long before people were on the dance floor.

Henrietta reappeared. I could tell she had something to drink on her way back from the toilet. Her movements were a little swayed. She grabbed my arm, her nails clawing into it. I winced. "We're going to dance, Eric." She told me. It was another order. Henrietta never asked me anything, only commanded.

"_Every time I think back/to the way you treated me_"

Craig's voice filled my ears. Before I knew what had happened I was dragged onto the dance floor and being used as a stripper pole for Henrietta's lewd dancing. I was not enjoying it, trying to move a little to keep her happy. While attempting to back away from Henrietta's ever gyrating behind, I managed to back into another couple on the dance floor.

"_I_ _get furious/I get pissed enough to something I might regret_"

Turning around I found myself face to face with the two people I wanted to see least that night. My stomach shot to my throat and I froze. I thought I might vomit onto the floor, if I ever found the ability to move again. I was certain in that moment that God did indeed hate fags because he was certainly punishing me.

"_I get so mad/I wanna kick your ass_"

Kyle and Rebecca stared at me. I hadn't seen Kyle face-to-face since our fist fight. While it had only been a few weeks, felt like years now that I was confronted with those devastating green eyes. Even in the dark, they shone like tiny emeralds, lodged into his sockets; piercing my soul. I shuddered.

"_I wanna smash your face/I wanna pick a fight" _

God, he looked good. Dressed in yet another pair of dark jeans that caressed his ass and a button down blue shirt. He had decided not to wear his hat. Instead, he had gelled his auburn hair into curls. It took every ounce of power I had not to attack him right there on the dance floor and run my fingers through his gorgeous hair. Damn him. Damn him to hell.

Henrietta looked around me at Kyle and Rebecca, raising an eyebrow, "Do you know these conformists, Eric?" Henrietta sneered, venom in her voice. She obviously recognized Kyle from the basketball team. She hated sports, in her opinion anything that required the tiniest trace of organization, dedication, or (god forbid) uniforms was conformist on par with Nazism. Kyle shot her a look of contempt.

"Just some Jew," I spat. The words came easily enough, but they didn't feel natural anymore. I knew that if Kyle looked into my eyes he would see I was longing for him. He would be able to see my entire soul, stripped naked and spread out for his viewing. Hopefully, he wasn't looking that close. I was begging to turn back towards Henrietta when Kyle spoke.

"_But the worst part is I can't get you out of my head!/Waoh!_"

"Come on, Rebecca." Kyle sniffed loudly, "It's crowded over here. It must be those two _fat asses_ taking up the floor." His eyes locked with mine when he said the word fat and I felt my blood boil. I took a step forward but Henrietta placed an authoritative hand on my shoulder. In one move she spun me around and into her body. The song was heating up and so was she. This time, I performed. I could feel Kyle's eyes on me and I wanted him to watch. I was out to prove something. Prove I wasn't gay. Prove I didn't need his skinny ass.

Henrietta grinded her body into me and I peeked over at Kyle. He locked eyes with me. Rebecca had taken our cue and was practically giving him a fucking lap dance on the dance floor. She pushed her tiny tits into his chest, and he ran his hands down her backside, giving her cheeks a noticeable squeeze. He smirked at me.

It's on, mother fucker.

"_Fuck you/Why can't you/Can't you just get out of my head?_"

Henrietta turned her back to me and gyrated her ass into my crotch. I almost froze as I was reminded of earlier in the car, but trying to show up Kyle pushed me forward. I pressed my face into her neck. I moved my hand along her thigh riding up her ridiculously short skirt. I heard her moan but I didn't care. She wasn't the one I was interested in. I wasn't thinking about the consequences of my actions. I just wanted Kyle's reactions.

And I was getting them.

With every move I made I could see him get angrier. I had never in my life seen him more focused on me. It was the closest thing to drugs I had ever done. It was like I was getting high on Kyle's concentration, on his attentions. It was the closest thing to happy I had ever been.

Then he won.

"_Why can't you/Can't you just leave me alone?_"

Kyle was competitive. He hated to lose, and he had the edge.

He pulled Rebecca into a long, romantic kiss. Wrapping his fingers into her flyaway birch curls, he guided her mouth open and she invited in his tongue. She swooned, tossing her arms around his shoulders she pulled him down to her. I felt sickened.

"_It's been so long/You've taken over my brain_"

My Gothic dance partner snatched the front of my hoodie and tugged me towards her into a lip lock I would not soon forget. My eyes did not close. I did not wrap my arms around her. A tongue was forced into my mouth. It felt as if I had swallowed an ash tray soaked in Jack and Coke.

She pushed her body against me; it was squishy like a bean bag chair. She used her free hand to shove my head down so that she could press her tongue further into my mouth until I was gagging. Her nails dug into the back of my head, ripping at the skin.

Lightning cracked through my brain; angry static electrifying my senses back into life, dragging me back into the reality of the situation. A slimy, ashy tongue was probing the depths of my mouth. I push Henrietta away and to the bathroom.

"_I hate you/I hate you_"

Kyle caught my eye as I was pushing my way off the dance floor. His eyes were huge, nearly glowing in dim light. He looked shocked. I could feel the tears coming. I needed to get out of there.

"_I love you…_"

- 0 -

I ran into the men's room.

It was disgusting. The ground was covered in piss and vomit and god knows what else. Used toilet paper and condoms littered the floor and doors were missing from some of the stalls. I went into the last stall and forced the lock shut. I slammed my back into the wall, sinking to the ground without noticing, or caring, how vile the concrete floor was.

It was as if the entire world came crashing down on me in that moment. Static buzzed through my ears. My stomach churned angrily, trying to force bile up my throat. My brain began to pound against my skull, attempting to break through. I could feel every vein pulsating, every artery throbbing. My hands shook and began to sweat.

I wanted to die. I had been so consumed with showing up Kyle I had led Henrietta on and I punished for it. My first kiss was stolen away. In public.

They say karma is a bitch, but I'm hers. She uses and misuses me and throws me to the wolves whenever she feels like it. It was my own fault. It was always my own fault. I hate myself. I hate myself so much.

I clenched my eyes shut, squeezing my head. I wanted to shut down. I wanted to pretend I was somewhere else. Suddenly, I remembered the feeling of the compass against my skin. The sweet sting of my skin as it was cleansed. I needed that. I needed to be released from my pain. Digging vigorously through my pockets I found my wallet. I disconnected the chain, the edge was not as pointy as my compass but it would do.

I unhooked the curved edge of the chain so the pointed part of the clasp was pointed upward. I dug it into the soft underbelly of my arm. The tender skin proved resistant. I pushed harder, forcing the spiked edge into one layer, two layers of skin. I used the tiny clasp like a shovel and began to burrow into my arm. Minutes went by, the pain intensified but I was not satisfied. I needed blood. I needed to see that crimson liquid seeping through an opening in my body. I was not truly purified until I released my inner toxins.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, I was rewarded. No smooth lines, just a divot in my skin. A deep cave, cherry red and filled with my evils. It took but moments before the blood reached the surface and began to drip.

I grabbed some of the toilet paper from the dispenser and pressed it against the hole, stemming the flow of blood. I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, feeling my anxieties drain from me like blood through my fingers.

_I know when it's getting rough  
All the times we spend  
When we try to make  
This love something better than  
Just making love again_

It's not like you to turn away  
All the bullshit I can't take  
Just when I think I can walk away,

I'm so addicted to all the things  
You do when you're going on me  
In between the sheets  
Or the sound you make  
With every breathe  
It's not like anything…

I missed the next day of school.

I couldn't face Henrietta or Kyle. I knew I had dug my own grave. I was as good as the Goth Queen's boyfriend by now. For some reason, I didn't want to even _see _Kyle if it meant I might have to explain my new "relationship" to him. I was terrified. I knew it was irrational, he most likely wouldn't even talk to me.

I spent the day in bed, my arms wrapped around Mr. Kitty face buried in her fur. I binged on so much chocolate that I wasted the latter half of the day barfing it all up. I spent a lot of time staring at the fresh gouge in my arm. It was deep. I could press my pink into it. It hurt, but I liked the pain. The temporary bite distracted me from the reality of what was Eric Cartman.

I had started to wear long sleeves. I didn't want anyone to know what I was doing to my body. I was conscious enough to know that most people would not accept my method of release. I didn't even want the Goths to know. Even if they romanticized cutting, it was too important to me to let anyone in on my secret. No one could take my sweet liberation away from me. Not even my mother.

_I was finally free…_


	8. Garbage

**PLEASE READ MY AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

This has been a physically stressful time in my life to say the least, not to mention emotionally, and I have not felt up to writing. I have spent the last few months battling debilitating fatigue and no answers. Struggling to keep up in school and being shuttled from doctor to doctor with no solution for nearly a year has been weighing heavily on me. My stress hit the head when I presented with stroke-symptoms in February and was rushed to the ER. It turned out that I have a neuromuscular disorder called Myasthenia Gravis. People with this illness have antibodies that attack an essential piece in the system used for muscle movement. This causes the muscles to weaken with repeated movement and sometimes simply stop moving entirely (ie. collapse). I started with slurred speech which quickly progressed to slack facial muscles, weakening in my fingers and limbs, and finally difficulty swallowing and breathing. Over the past few months, I have been desperately trying to find a way to control my symptoms with medications and have spent days in the hospital receiving IV treatments. I had a major surgery on October seventh that _may_ put my illness into remission. I think that everyone can understand why I have not been capable of writing.

Thank you everyone who is sticking with me. I know that I often go long amounts of time without writing because I am ill and working hard just to make it through the day. I know it's annoying, but I really want to tell you how much I appreciate your patience. I love my readers. Each favorite author, favorite story, and review makes me inexplicably happy in way I wish I had the vocabulary to express.

I truly love this story. I take so much time because I want to badly for it to be well written. I know sometimes it seems like it is a little farfetched, but I don't think it is. When it rains it pours and there are tough lives everywhere.

The Goth's Names: Please do not try to tell me that the Goth's names are Ethan, Dylan, and Georgie. They aren't. A relatively well-known fanfiction author named **Kyle the Skeptic**came up with those names for her stories and people liked them. They are not the official names on the show. Check every script, they're written in as Tall Goth, Red Goth, and Tiny Goth or Goth #1, Goth #2, and Goth #3. I made up my own names, and truly I feel they suit them better at least for my stories. Sorry!

Oh my GOD! The second episode in the Coon Trilogy was amazing. I _knew _that the Kindergoth was fucked up. I knew he was the worst of them! Hardcore! I was freaking out that my characterization was right. It made me squeal. Whahaha. I knew Mysterion would end up being Kenny, but I wanted it to be Kyle because it would further my Kyle x Cartman love if they were enemies in the Coon episodes. I'll live though, because Mint-Berry-Crunch is all kinds of hot. You know it.

**Main Pair: **Eric/Kyle  
**Secondary Pair:** Stan/Wendy  
**Featured Pairs:** Kyle/Rebecca, Bebe/Clyde  
**Mentioned Pairs: **Eric/Henrietta, Tweek/Craig, Butters/Token

**Warnings:** In this story, Eric becomes _bulimic_ and begins _cutting_. There is mention of homosexuality, sex, violence, and abuse. This story is all about angst. So deal. There is a lot of focus on recovery and self-mutilation, both physical and emotional. Those with weak stomachs should not read this.

**Dedications:**This story is dedicated to every reader and reviewer. It is dedicated to every person who has ever forced themselves to vomit or cut. To every person whose parent has ever struck him. To every person who has ever been abused at school for simply being themselves. This is for you. This is to let you know, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who wants it to improve for you. I am here for you.

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone  
FanFiction © Courtney Dracon (LuffySP)

Songs:  
"Kryptonite" by Three Doors Down**  
**"I'm Not Your Boyfriend, Baby!" by 3oH3!

* * *

**Chapter Eight:**** Garbage**

When I was younger I fancied myself a superhero.

I wanted nothing more than to be the next Superman. In my youth, I poured over comic books. I read everything from Superman to Plastic Man. I voraciously consumed Spiderman and The Incredible Hulk. I even read Aquaman for fuck's sake. Ordinary men granted magnificent powers by chance, abilities beyond the comprehension of mere mortal. Wondrous gifts given to a blessed few, setting them apart from the meandering masses of sheeple wandering the streets like the worthless wastes of skin they are. Superheroes are superior for a reason.

I wanted that.

So I created an alter-ego. I wanted power and prestige and I would have it. I looked into the mirror and finally felt as if I was special. I was worth something. People love heroes. I had never felt the adoration of others and I wanted nothing more than to experience the thrilling sensation of being basked in the warm affections of the doting public. I wanted it to bad I could taste it.

But, my illusion was quickly shattered.

I failed miserably. I had no powers. I couldn't magically regenerate. I didn't have cereal based abilities. Relying on the only things I knew, I used deception and blackmail. I created an empire on manipulation and malice. I trapped a boy in a cage for two weeks to live on his own excrement.

I was no hero. I was worse than a villain. I was a devil. I was a pariah. I am Eric Cartman.

I am garbage.

_I took a walk around the world to ease my troubled mind  
I left my body lying somewhere in the sands of time  
But I watched the world float to the dark side of the moon  
If there's nothing I can do…  
_

_I watched the world float to the dark side of the moon  
After all I knew it had to be something to do with you  
I really don't mind what happens now and then  
As long as you'll be my friend 'til the end_

_If I go crazy then will you still call me Superman?_  
_If I'm alive and well will you be there, holding my hand?_  
_I'll keep you by my side with my superhuman might  
__My Kryptonite  
_

School began rather regularly.

I met with the Goths behind the building for a pre-school smoke. I was seated on the steps next to Henrietta, who was absentmindedly blowing smoke rings into the swirling snow. Her black and purple hair blew around her face. She rarely seemed to bother with the heavy coats typical of Colorado natives, even in such chilly weather, preferring instead to wear a long black burlap trench open over her short Gothic-Lolita dresses and skirts.

My mouth tasted particularly dry this morning, like I had tried to swallow an entire ashtray. My stomach hadn't been sitting right ever since the incident at The Hole.

Henrietta had been especially affectionate since that night. Tentative touching had become bolder, more possessive. She sat within two inches of me at all times. I think I had lost a lung to her second hand smoke. She ran her free hand across my leg, up towards the zipper on my pants. She paused over my junk far too long for my comfort. I clenched my eyes shut, trying to pretend I was somewhere else.

When I opened my eyes I was surprised to see Bebe Stevens wandering by the dumpsters. She looked especially frail in her red plaid pea coat, skintight jeggings clinging to skeleton legs, tucked in clunky black snow boots. She resembled a scarecrow with her flyaway blonde locks and bony features. One little gust of wind and she would crumble into pieces. She had a McDonald's bag in her hands, clutching it to her chest as if it were a vital organ. Her brittle fingers were snow white. They looked like little bones blending into the bag.

She paused for a moment, opening the bag and holding it to her nose. She breathed in the greasy scent with such ecstasy that I could have sworn that breath would be her last. Then she did the strangest thing…

She threw the bag into the dumpster. Just tossed the uneaten food into the trash and ran towards the front doors, jacket billowing around her willowy frame in the whirling slush. She folded her arms tight over her chest as if protecting herself from an onslaught of unseen bullets.

Then I had the sickest desire…

I wanted to rifle through the trash and dig out Bebe's discarded food. I wanted to feel that greasy, fast food on my tongue so bad it hurt. I wanted to feel the salt on the fries grind between my fingers like tiny little beads of delicious sin. Suddenly, I realized where my thoughts had gone too. I felt bile poking at the back of my throat. As the shame overwhelmed me, I felt myself sinking backward into myself. I could hear the conversation around me but none of it was registering.

_What am I becoming?_

- 0 -

The bell was a gift from God. I fled into the school without saying goodbye. I ducked into my next class and sank into the desk farthest in the back, burying my head in my arms. I tried to close my eyes and zone out. Suddenly, I was startled by yet another familiar voice, "Hey Cartman." Stan Marsh slid into the seat next to me and flashed me that quarterback smile.

"Fuck off."

"Pleasant as usual, I see." He grinned and shook his head dismissively. He leaned back in his seat and twirled his pencil in his fingers. "What's new with you, my Gothic pal?" he asked, his amiable attitude grated on my ears like nails on a chalkboard.

"What do you care?" I snapped, glowering at him from underneath slashed bangs. His handsome face and baby blue eyes aggravated me. His pouty lips framed perfect white teeth and a gorgeous smile that made me want to tear his beautiful face apart. His pale green tee shirt hugged a six pack I wanted to rip from his stomach and forcibly sew onto my own. Stan looked at me with a raised brow. He seemed surprised that I had even asked.

"Well I don't know," he said sarcastically, "You've barely said two words to me in four months, you and Kyle tried to murder each other, at school no less, oh, and did I mention the GOTH thing?" he looked at me as if I had lost my damned mind. Maybe I had.

"Does it really matter?" I asked him, sighing dejectedly. I gripped my head in tired hands, clenching shut hazel eyes and wondered for the millionth time _if _it really mattered. If any of it really mattered. If _I_ really mattered...

"I think so." His answer was without hesitation. I opened my eyes to look at him incredulously. "Don't look at me like that, Cartman." He snapped, "I've known you since preschool for fuck's sake. We've practically grown up together. So forgive me for wondering why suddenly you changed clothes and friends! Oh! And did I mention _dating _the Goth Queen?" Stan finished animatedly, his blue eyes sparkling with passion.

I nearly choked at his last statement. _Is that what Kyle thought? _I sat bolt upright and tried to swallow my own spittle forcefully so that I could speak without my words falling out all over themselves. I was stuttering as bad as that the time I pretended to be mentally challenged to win one thousand dollars, "D—dating?" I managed to squeak in a fashion I hoped was both nonchalant and inquisitive. Stan raised his eyebrow in a fashion that told me I had clearly failed.

"Well, yeah." He frowned, "Kyle said you two were all over each other at that club the other night." The recollection of our smoke-flavored kiss filled my memory banks and my senses shut down. Flashes of the night at The Hole danced through my brain like movie on fast forward. I found myself recalling her unwanted touches on the front of my jeans. My back stiffened.

"Oh my God!" I buried my head in my hands, despite myself. Kyle thought I was _dating _that damndable woman. Why did I even care what that Jew bastard thought anyway? He made it pretty damned clear at the club he didn't give two shits about me or who I was with. Stan must have seen how upset the comment made me, because he dropped the conversation. He made an awkward, almost sincere movement to pat me on the back before thinking better of it and dropping his hand back to his side.

Ugh Fuck it! Fuck it all! FuckitFuckitFuckitFuckit.

_I'm not your boyfriend, baby_  
_I ain't your cute little sex toy_  
_I'm not your lion or your tiger_  
_Nah! Nah! Won't be your nasty little boy_

_I'm not your boyfriend, baby  
__Yeah, I can't grant your every wish_  
_Yeah, I'm not your knight in shining armor_  
_So I'll just leave you with this kiss_

_Kill the lights_  
_These children learn from cigarette burns_  
_Fast cars. Fast women. And cheap drinks…_  
_It feels right_  
_All these asphyxiated, self-medicated…_  
_  
Take the white pill, you'll feel alright_

I slipped into a bathroom that was still marked Out of Order. Ocassionally, the Goths came here to smoke pot instead of going to gym so I checked all of the stalls to see if they were empty before choosing the handicapped one at the end. I took off my trench and slung it over the safety bar, abandoning my messenger bag on the tile beside me I slid to the ground in front of the foul smelling porcelain beast. I needed to get my hatred out of me or I would never be able to function for the rest of the day.

Angrily forcing my middle finger towards the back of my throat, I felt a familiar tickle. I removed my finger just in time for it to be spared being covered in vomit as I wretched violently into the bowl. Tears sprang to the corners of my eyes and I clenched them shut, willing my frustrations, fear, and sadness to pass with each passing tremor.

Just as I was finished I heard someone else enter the bathroom. _Why were they in the Out of Order bathroom?_ I wondered. Well, I guess I couldn't talk since I was hiding out in the abandoned commodes as well. I prayed to God that they hadn't heard the last few pieces of my purging. I pushed myself off my knees and flushed the toilet a couple time. Hopefully, the other person would just think I had taken a shit or something. I was about to open the stall door when I heard a scream, except, it wasn't male.

"Clyde, I'm sorry! Please stop!"

I pressed my eye up to the tiny slit in between the door and wall. I could see only bits and pieces of the scene, but it was enough to put together what was happening. Bebe was cowering on the floor, clutching her cheek and crying. Her perfectly lined eyes were now smudged and running down her porcelain face. Clyde loomed over her, a leviathan towering above her frail form.

"Shut the fuck up, cunt!" he spat at her. I cringed, inadvertently. I had heard that kind of hatred in a voice before. He sounded just like my mother. "I saw you talking to that fucking Brighton kid. You're fucking him, aren't you?" he accused. Bebe's brown eyes were wide, like a deer in headlights. It was quite clear she had no idea what he was talking about.

"N—no!" she protested, "Clyde, please! I would never cheat on you. Why—" she didn't finish her sentence before he kicked her forcibly in the stomach. A strangled moan escaped her. She clutched at her ribs, a new wave of tears making their way down her face. Suddenly it all made sense, the bruises, the weight loss, the favoring of one limb or another…

Clyde Donovan was abusing his girlfriend.

I couldn't see his face too well, but Clyde seemed nonplussed. If anything proved his lack of empathy, it was the way he pulled her up by her hair to look him in the eye. Bebe struggled to find balance as her popsicle-stick legs slipped around on the bathroom tile, "Whore. Cunt. Bitch. You're nothing without me and you know it." He told her, spitting on her face.

Suddenly, a chain on my pants clinked. Clyde tuned into the sound like bat-sonar. He dropped Bebe to the ground like a piece of trash and focused on the bathroom stall, "Who the fuck is in there? Show yourself!" he demanded. I tried, desperately, to stay still. I willed myself to cease breathing. I willed him not to notice me. None of this mattered when he kicked the door open, nearly removing it from its hinges. I fell backward, skittering away just in time to avoid being smacked in the face by the swinging door.

I found myself looking up into Clyde Donovan's sharp, blue eyes. They were a pale shade of blue that seemed almost lifeless underneath the dingy, fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling of the school bathroom. Since the fourth grade he had added a few _feet _to his height. Now towering over me at six foot three, he was broad shouldered even without his letterman jacket. He leered.

"Cartman!" Bebe managed a strangled yell.

Clyde didn't even acknowledge her, just sneered down at me. "Well, well, well what have we here? A fat Goth fuckwad." He seethed. I looked up at him, opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water, unable to think of what to say. Eric Cartman, finally speechless. _Your mouth can't get you out of this one, fucktard._ Clyde grabbed my collar and pulled me to my feet, only to throw me down to the tile again next to Bebe.

I skidded across the tile and smacked my head against the wall. A white flash blinded me momentarily only to be replaced by excruciating pain and fuzzy vision. Gripping my pounding head with one hand, I tried to push myself up. I knew I was crying, it was only natural when you were in that kind of pain. I also knew that it would not escape Clyde's attention. He scoffed, "Pussy."

Bebe attempted to tug me into an upright position. I could feel some blood on the back of my neck. Her eyes looked panicked, tears streaming down her face. She didn't say anything but each movement of her eyes was filled with apology. Clyde was having none of this; he kicked her off of me. Bebe squeaked like a wounded puppy, clutching her hand to her chest. "Don't interfere, you fucking slut." He commanded. She looked up at him, saying nothing, pure terror made her tear-stained eyes shine like rain-slicked marbles.

Clyde rounded on me, grabbing my arm and wrenching me upward. I thought my arm would rip right out of the socket, "You didn't see shit. Got me, faggot?" he growled at me. I nodded wordlessly. He seemed to accept this as a confirmation of my silence, releasing my collar and staring me in the eye. Or at least that is what I thought until he punched me square in the jaw.

I barely had time to raise my hands up to my face in shock when he landed another punch on my eye. I yelled my protestations, but blows continued to rain down on my face, shoulders, and stomach. I could not shield myself from his onslaught, nor could I escape. I chose to begrudgingly accept it in hopes that doing so would make it less painful of an ordeal. I had been able to do this before, whenever my mother did this very thing after a night of hard drinking. I closed my eyes and tried desperately to turn my emotions off. One by one, I felt each of my senses turning off. My brainwaves turned to static and I waited. Waited for him to finish…

I could barely hear Bebe screaming at him above the fuzz in my own brain, "Stop Clyde! Stop it! You'll kill him!"

- 0 -

I don't know how long Clyde beat me for, but he left Bebe and me in the bathroom when the next bell rang. She helped me to my feet and we stood in silence for a moment. She shuffled into a bathroom and grabbed some toilet tissue, shoving some into my hands she began wiping her face with the rest. I rolled the paper into a tube and shoved some up my bleeding nose.

Finally, she spoke. Her voice was weak, trembling. "Please don't say anything, Cartman." She begged, her eyes pleading. I didn't mean to be angry, but I was. Bebe didn't deserve to be treated like a piece of trash. She was worth more than that. I was not the type to stand up for a damsel in distress and I doubt I ever will be, but I didn't like seeing a girl I remembered as being so fiercely independent in youth transformed into a wounded puppy desperately clinging to a man out of fear, lest she be brutally assaulted. Ugh, there it was again, the _caring_ Eric Cartman. What did I care if Bebe wanted to be with some douchebag who kicked the shit out of her whenever he got the chance?

"Why the fuck are you with a guy like that?" I asked her. It was like I couldn't stop myself from caring! The words tumbled out before I could stop them, I could even _hear _the concern and it scared me.

"It's complicated." She whispered, running her fingers through her hair as if in attempt to fix it. It didn't help much, only adding to the frizziness of its appearance. She began fishing through her purse. She pulled out a make-up bag and went to work on her face. Bebe began desperately smearing concealer over her bruises and tears.

Now that I was this close to her, I could see just how thin she really was. Her face was sallow and so pale white it was almost yellow. Her eyes seemed sunken into her skull and now that she was no longer wearing her bulky coat I could see her shape underneath the billowing red tunic she was wearing. The bones poked through the skin like pegs holding up a frail tent. Her arms were so tiny and thin, I think I could have wrapped my finger around the expanse of them.

"Whatever. I'm leaving." I told her, shuffling over to the handicapped stall to grab my abandoned jacket and bag. I tugged on my coat and slung my jacked over my shoulder, heading for the door. Bebe stopped repairing her face momentarily to frown at me, a look of desperation on her face. She opened her mouth, but I cut her off "Fine, fine. I won't say anything." I reassured her, shaking my head. _Damn my sympathetic heart…_

Bebe expelled a sigh of relief and I let the bathroom door shut behind me.

- 0 -

In the school parking lot, the cold air hit me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly, a wave of nausea so violent overcame me I grabbed onto the hood of the nearest car and bent over it to throw up all the blood I had swallowed during my beating. "_Well, at least I am losing weight!_" I thought to myself sarcastically.

"What the fuck are you doing to my car?"

The person's voice didn't even register in my head until I looked up and my vision began to come back into focus. I realized I was leaning on the shiny hood of a cherry red Honda Civic convertible. A sporty model that one particular person had painstakingly saved up for since his thirteenth birthday…

Kyle Broflovski was running towards me at full speed, the flaps of his green hat fluttering behind him in the wind. "_Oh my Gawd!_"I pushed myself up, "_how could I have forgotten that he didn't have any classes until the afternoon?_" When he saw that it was me he skidded to a stop and his glare became more prominent. He began stamping over to his car with purpose.

"Cartman! What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, his voice brimming with anger. "I swear to God if you're keying my car—" his voice sputtered to a halt when he saw my face. "Oh my God Cartman, what _happened_?" Kyle's voice came out in a weird squeak. If I didn't know any better, I might have said he sounded almost concerned.

"I got my ass kicked, what does it look like?" I glowered, wiping the blood from my mouth.

Kyle didn't say anything for a moment, just looked me up and down with the strangest look on his face. Finally he said, "I think I have a First Aid kit in my car." I blinked at him as he pulled the keys off his backpack and pressed the button on his keychain. The lights on his car blinked and bleeped. I heard the locks click as they released. "Come on." He motioned, opening the passenger's door for me and gesturing me into the seat. I allowed him to push me into the leather seat without much protestation, my feet still buried in the snow.

He walked around to the back of the car and I could hear him fumbling with his keys. Kyle popped the trunk and rummaged through it. After a few minutes, I felt the trunk close and a moment later he was back at my side with a tiny plastic case in his hands, crouching down in front of me. "It won't be much, but…" he clicked it open and pulled some gauze from it, placing it on the cut above my eye. I closed my eyes, wishing that I could feel his fingers on my bare skin, fantasizing for a moment that he truly cared about me. Kyle's voice broke the silence, "What happened, Cartman?"

"What do you care?" I asked, opening my eyes to glare at him.

Kyle didn't answer. He offered me no explanations. No lies. He gave me no assurances of false friendship the way Stan had. He simply set aside the piece of gauze and grabbed a cotton ball, wiping the blood streaking down my cheeks and neck. He wiped _Neosporin _into the larger cuts and placed band-aids on them. Finally, he tugged the piece of toilet paper out of my nose and threw it on the pile of abandoned blood-stained tissue at his feet.

He got to his feet, collecting the trash and walking to the nearest trash can to toss it away. He returned a few minutes later. I stayed silent while he did this, watching him. I knew Kyle hated me, he hated me more than he hated Adolf Hitler. Justifiably as well, I had never been anything but terrible to him. Yet, feeling him taking care of me the way he had. Feeling his thin, beautiful fingers on my cheeks, even through layers of mesh and tissue was the most exhilarating thing I had ever experienced. I wanted him. I couldn't keep lying to myself. I wanted him, badly.

When he returned to the car, he grabbed walked over to the driver's side and got in. Kyle buckled his seatbelt and I gave him a strange look, "I'm gonna take you home, okay? Pull in your legs and close the door." He instructed, not bothering to even glimpse at me. I did as I was told and he turned on the car. A sudden, welcome wave of heat invaded the car and began to thaw my icy cheeks and nose. Kyle flicked the radio and music filled the car, a soft rock station. That would be just like him, _faggot_. I smiled to myself and let the lilting melodies engulf me.

After more than a few minutes of driving, me watching the snow-covered scenery as it passed by the window. At a red light, I finally spoke to him. "Thanks." I whispered. He glanced at me. I looked back, meeting his gaze. A smile made its way across his features. His smile was strange, almost strained. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but to me he still seemed like the most beautiful person in the universe.

"Yeah,"

When I finally arrived home, I got out of the car and thanked him one last time. He nodded his acknowledgement and drove away. I watched him leave, wishing for a moment that the drive could have lasted forever. I remembered how gentle he was with me, almost as if he actually cared. I touched my cheeks, momentarily.

I sighed and shook the thoughts from my head. I walked to the front door and fished through my bag for my keys. I fiddled with them until I found the right one and opened the door to find my mother on her knees, her mouth around some guy's cock.

_This is just not my day._


End file.
